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ANS CHRISTIA
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A Child's Story of
Hans Christian Andersen

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A Child's Story of
Hans Christian Andersen

Paul Harboe

New York
Duffield & Company

MCMVII

Published August, 1907

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THE PREMIER PRESS
NHW YORK

Contents

Chapter , Page

I Childhood . . .9

II The Young Man . . 53

III Through Foreign Lands . . 101

IV In the World of Children . 133
V In Great Britain . . .161

VI The Friend of Monarchs . 197

VII The Gfr^iitest-Ev^t^jn^^is Life . 221

VIII The Story-l-ellfer as He Was . 247

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List of Illustrations

Portrait of Andersen by Elizabeth Jerichau-

Baumann . . . Frontispiece

Facing page

The house in which he was bom . .12

O dense — his birthplace . . . 50

Silhouette cut for little Ida Shiele . 136

One of the last silhouettes Andersen cut 1 82

Andersen reading to the children . .214

Hans Christian Andersen in later life . 238

The Monument in Odense . . . 276

"My life is a beautiful story,
happy and full of incident, ' *

Childhood

A Child s Story of Hans
Christian Andersen

Childhood

T TANS Christian Andersen was born
^ April 2nd, 1805, at Odense, the
third largest city of Denmark. There
was much ado in the town that day.
The people were celebrating the fourth
anniversary of a famous naval battle, as
well as honouring the presence of fifty-
one prominent musicians and singers
who had come to take part in a grand
concert. For an hour or more in the
morning the chimes of the ancient
church of St. Canute rang out. There
the concert, the proceeds of which
were to be distributed among the
poor, was to be held. The streets were

Hans Christian Andersen

crowded with people in holiday attire,
flags and bunting fluttered from house-
tops and fronts, and practically all
business was suspended. Of course no
one could, at that time, identify the
celebration with the birth of the most
famous writer Denmark ever produced,
but we may now regard it somehow as
the town's first greeting to its wonder-
ful son.

The parents of the author were
one of the poorest families in Odense,
and their home one of the most
wretched. They occupied a single
room on the ground floor of a strag-
gling house, far from the main
thoroughfares. This room contained
all their belongings. Here they ate,
slept, and received their few acquaint-
ances. Here too, Hans' father, a
cobbler, plied his trade. Nearly the

5^ Si

ss-

S-

Childhood

whole space of the room was taken up
by his work-bench, the bed and the
crude turn-up bedstead which served
as a cradle for the little child. There
were a number of old pictures on the
walls, on a chest of drawers over by
the window stood some porcelain
wares, glasses and knick-knacks, and
above the work-bench hung a shelf
filled with old books. In his Autobi-
ography the famous story-teller says:
"The little room seemed large and
handsome to me. Some previous
lodger had painted bits of landscape
on panels of the door, and the sight of
them was then just as significant to
me as now an entire picture gallery.''
The cobbler cared vastly more
about his shelf-full of books than the
making or mending of boots. In-
deed, not only did he find his work

Hans Christian Andersen

onerous, he was actually ashamed of
it. As a boy he had frequently urged
and begged his parents to allow him
to study, and enter the Latin School
in order that he might equip himself
with a good education. But they
pleaded poverty as an excuse for not
granting his wish. That discourage-
ment almost broke the boy's heart and
he could never quite forgive them.
Even now, seated before the ill-smell-
ing lamp and patches of water-soaked
leather, he would silently reproach his
father for having apprenticed him to
a handicraft so irksome. And he
would close his eyes, now and then,
to dream of the great wide world out-
side, of fair cities he had read about
and longed to visit, and of Napoleon,
his hero, whose conquering armies he
sighed for a chance to join. He never

Childhood

smiled or laughed save when he hap-
pened to be reading Arabian Nights^
or the humourous plays of Ludvig
Holburg, who has been called the
Danish Shakespeare. Of customers he
had few, of real friends none at all.
The neighbors were inclined to make
fun of him, some calling him a crank,
while others went so far as to declare
he was crazy, like his poor old father,
about whom we shall hear anon.

In several respects the cobbler was
like an older brother to his little son,
at the time of whose birth he was but
twenty-two years of age. They got
on splendidly in each other's com-
pany, the father always letting Hans
have his own way. Every Sunday,
during spring, summer and autumn,
the weather permitting, they would
walk out hand in hand into the beau-
is

Hans Christian Andersen

tiful fields and forests that encircle
Odense. There Hans soon learned the
names of the various flowers, plants
and trees he came across, and he
listened eagerly to what his father told
him of the wonders of creation.
Sometimes their journeys brought
them very far from home and the
child's little legs would wobble with
weariness, but then he would be
treated to a ride on his father's back.
Once a year, regularly, at Easter time,
Mrs. Andersen would accompany
them on these delightful outings. On
such occasions she invariably wore her
finest dress— a calico gown which she
never used but when she attended
Holy Communion.

Hans Christian, as he was called by
his parents, was a most well-behaved
little fellow. You might have thought

Childhood

him a goody-goody, as did the boys of
his time generally, for he was extreme-
ly shy and backward, and his blue
eyes readily filled with tears. He had
no playmates, nor did he seek the
company of any. He took ho part
whatever in the games that children
of his own age played then as they play
them to-day: tag, hide-and-seek, blind
man's buflF, puss-in-the-corner, snap-
the-whip, etc. His only companions
were the large group of dolls he owned.
These his father had made for him,
even to the pretty dresses they wore.
The cobbler's nimble fingers had also
fashioned for his child a fine assort-
ment of toys, unequalled perhaps in
the whole city; and constructed a
sort of show-box, supplied with a
lot of pictures representing churches,
cloisters and handsome buildings.

Hans Christian Aiiderse?!

The more Hans looked at them, the
more he yearned to see them in life,
and to go to the German city of
Augsburg where they were to be
found. Why did not Odense have
such fine sights, such big streets, he
wondered.

Although his home was as humble
as it could well be, Hans thrived
finely within its walls. His mother
was the proudest mother in all Den-
mark. She kept her boy as neatly
dressed as she could afford to, and
curled his hair most carefully. Upon
Hans' little plate she put the choicest
things to eat that the house contained;
though she could not refrain from re-
minding him that he was faring a
great deal better than was really in
keeping with their circumstances.

'*We are awfully poor," she would

Childhood

say to him, ''and yet you get dainties
delicious enough for a duke's child.
How much better off you are than I
was, as a little girl. My mother often
drove me out into the streets to beg,
and I can remember once when I sat
all day long under a bridge, hungry
and distressed, wishing I were dead.''

It is true that Hans' mother had
worked hard all her life. Her child-
hood held nothing upon which she
could look back with pleasure and
say: "How sweet it was!" or "How
I wish those days would return ! ' ' For
her there had been no looking at
pretty pictures, no playing at delight-
ful games, no reading of nice books,
nor scarcely any going to school at all.

Hans' first and favorite playground
was the yard in the rear of his house.
He liked to call it his garden, his park

Hans Christian Andersen

even, though it contained only a few
hedges and a lone gooseberry bush, to
which the child was greatly attached.
For hours at a time he would sit be-
side that gooseberry bush, under the
tent he had made of one of his mother's
old aprons, gazing up at the drifting
skies, listening to bird-song, or to the
roaring hum of the mill-wheel close
by. The mill stood then exactly where
it stands now, at the end of the brook
that gives it its power, the historic
Odense yla, meaning a rivulet. At the
foot of the street in which the author
lived, a bridge crossed the stream and
brought you into what Hans consid-
ered a real wonderland. There were
willows and burdocks in such numbers
that you could lose yourself among
them. The holes in the turf resembled
the entrance of caves, which you would

Childhood

fancy to be inhabited by monsters. A
world of toads frolicked hideously on
the banks of the water, the bubbles on
whose surface appeared to Hans like so
many shooting stars. Passing on a lit-
tle farther you reached the moor, al-
ways mist-laden, always mysterious, on
warm summer evenings. Here the
future story-teller found one of his best
friends for life : the stork. In form he
really came to look somewhat like this
strange bird, his body was so gaunt and
crooked, his legs so thin and long.
Like the stork, he too was fond of
roaming through many countries,
never settling in one place. You
could scarcely count all the journeys
he made in his life-time.

There were unusual sights to be
seen in the streets in those days. Na-
poleon, who was bent on conquering

Hafis Christian Andersen

Sweden, had sent an army of French-
men and Spaniards into Denmark,
which country was in alliance with
him. A great number of these swarthy
sons of the south were quartered in
and about Odense. They slept on
pallets of straw along the streets,
lounged in the square, and on Sun-
days held mass like the good Catholics
they were, in open tents, or in the
schoolhouses, which they had turned
into armories. One day, when Hans
was only about four years of age, and
as he was walking through the town
unaccompanied, he happened to see a
Spaniard unbutton his coat and draw
forth the image of a saint, to kiss it
reverently. At first the little boy was
amazed, he had never seen such an act
before. He stepped up in front of the
soldier and boldly asked him what he

Childhood

meant by kissing the imap^e. On be-
ing told, Hans expressed his desire to
touch the object with his lips.

''Will you please let me?" he
asked.

Yes, since you seem to be such a
nice little fellow, you may,'' the
Spaniard replied.

Afterwards, overcome with strange
feelings, he ran home to his mother to
tell her what had happened to him.
But she was aggrieved and angry.
Only the Roman Catholics did such
things, she declared, cautioning Hans
never to disgrace himself that way
again.

Hans devoutly promised to remem-
ber that he was a Lutheran, like
the rest of his countrymen, though
the Spaniard's act of worship had so
impressed him that years afterward he

Ha?is Christian Atidersen

wrote a poem describing the incident.
It is entitled The Soldier,

The cobbler's love for his boy was
almost if not quite equalled by the
affection of Hans' grandmother, on
his father's side. This kindly old
woman visited the Andersen home
every day, and while she was there it
seemed that the dingy room grew
brighter and more cheerful. On step-
ping across the threshold her first
question would be :

''How's my little pet to-day?"
Whereupon Hans would give a
glad cry as he romped over to her
side, to be fondled and lifted up on
her knee. On Saturday afternoons
she brought flowers from the little
garden she kept in order over by the
Graabrodre Hospital or asylum. These
were placed in a vase on the chest of

Childhood

drawers between the windows and gave
fragrance to and adorned the home
over Sunday. Frequently she had
sweetmeats for her grandchild — ginger-
breadmen or fruits. Such good things
did not come from her own home,
however, for that was even as wretched
as the boy's — but from the pantry of
the asylum to which the garden where
she worked was attached and where
she took most of her meals.

The cobbler's mother was never
accompanied by her husband when
she called. That poor old man was
no pleasant person to see. Hans feared
him, and no wonder. The street-boys
jeered at him, ran at his heels, shout-
ing and hooting. Why ? Because he
was a hopeless simpleton. When he
came walking you would think he
was wading through the water, he

Hans Christia?i Andersen

dragged his feet so. He never looked
this way or that, or straight ahead,
but always had his eyes fixed on the
ground. If you were brave enough
to stop in front of him and address
him, he would stare at you till the
blood ran cold in your veins. He had
long ago ceased doing any sensible
work, and now amused himself by
cutting all sorts of queer figures out
of wood. For instance, he carved
lion-headed fishes, or fish-headed lions,
and made four-footed beasts with
wings. These products of his crazy
skill he would peddle around in the
country, selling them for whatever
the purchaser chose to oflFer — a hand-
ful of barley to cook porridge of, or a
bit of pork. Timid children ran
panic-stricken at the sight of him,
though he never harmed anyone. In

Childhood

the fourteen years Hans spent at
Odense, before going to Copenhagen
to seek fame there, his grandfather
spoke to him but once.

When Hans had attained the age
of five, Mrs. Andersen decided to
send him to school to learn the
alphabet, and to read and write. She
accordingly took him to a school-
ma'am who conducted a kindergarten
in the neighborhood, leaving instruc-
tions with her that under no circum-
stances, for no cause whatever, would
she sufler her child to be punished.

''He is a good child," said Mrs.
Andersen, "and will not be disobedi-
ent, or deserve a whipping. If you
should ever lay hands on him, I will
remove him from your school at
once."

The schoolma'am smilingly prom-

Ha?is Christian Andersen

ised to refrain from applying the rod
to Hans' little body, and for a few
weeks she was as kind as kind could
be. Hans tried to please her in every
way by being punctual, attentive and
industrious. But one day when the
teacher was in a bad mood, it hap-
pened that Hans was playing instead
of working at his desk. Forgetting
her promise to Mrs. Andersen, the
lady began scolding her pupil most
severely, nor did she stop before she
had beaten him with the cane she
kept for the purpose. But while he
was being spanked Hans looked up
into the schoolma'am's flushed face
and said, indignantly:

"How dare you whip me while
God is looking on?''

Hans Christian Andersen never
entered that kindergarten again. The

Childhood

very next day, after she had called the
teacher to account for breaking her
promise, Mrs. Andersen took her boy
out of the school. Soon after she
placed him in a regular boys' school,
in charge of a Mr. Carstens. This
man looked after his new pupil with
fatherly kindness. He had instantly
taken a fancy to the little curly-haired
fellow, and saw to it that none of the
other boys annoyed or bullied him.
At recess he would take Hans by the
hand and walk the playground with
him, or watch the games of the other
children. Oftentimes he presented
the cobbler's child with cakes or
flowers. Later, this kind teacher be-
came manager of a telegraph station
in another town, and Hans saw no
more of him. But Mr. Carstens
always remembered with ever-grow-

HdJis Christian Anderseii

ing pride that he had been the first
man-teacher of the celebrated story-
teller.

In the third school he attended,
Hans received very poor instruction
in religion, penmanship and arith-
metic. His lessons were so short and
easy that he never studied them at
home, but merely read them over
once on his way to school in the
morning. Mrs. Andersen was greatly
pleased with his scholarship.

"Look at my boy,'' she would cry
to her neighbors, "he hardly ever
glances at his lessons, and yet he gets
perfect marks. That proves what a
fine head he has. Your boys study
and study till long after bed-time,
and yet Hans is ahead of them all."

It was at about this time that the
author of "The Ugly Duckling" did

Childhood

one of the strangest things in his
whole career. Both his mother and
grandmother, as well as his teachers,
had often spoken of the almightiness
of God. The Creator could do what-
ever He pleased, they said. Nothing
was impossible for Him. If He chose,
He could crush the world in one
second, or strike the stars from the
heavens. Hans pondered a long time
over this and then decided to make
an experiment to see for himself. One
afternoon he quietly left his home and
hurried on to a marl-pit quite a dis-
tance oflF. Standing on the bank and
looking into the deep muddy water
for a moment, the little lad folded his
hands, raised his head toward heaven,
and exclaimed:

"Now, if You are Almighty, dear
God, You will not let me drown."

Hans Christian Andersen

Plash! Down he plunged into
the cold water. Oh, but he was
sinking.

"Help! Help! Help !" the poor
child shouted, kicking his feet with all
his might and reaching out for the
shore. For half a minute he managed
to keep afloat, although he could not
swim. By the end of that time, fortu-
nately, his frantic cries had attracted
the notice of a passerby who rushed
to his rescue. Chilled and penitent,
though grateful and full of good reso-
lutions for the future, Hans was pulled
out of the pond and taken home. Of
course Mrs. Andersen was somewhat
angry, though naturally she could not
help rejoicing over her boy's narrow
escape from death. That night, kneel-
ing by the bed, Hans prayed God to
forgive him for that foolish experiment

Childhood

of his, and thanked him humbly for
letting him off so easy.

The Graabrodre Hospital or
asylum was occupied by the queerest
people of the town. There lived old,
witch-like women and old, villainous-
looking men, who had become public
charges. Accompanied by his grand-
mother, our little friend often visited
this institution.

That is, in the beginning, he
frequented the servants' dining room
only when he was invited to take
dinner or supper there by his father's
mother as a reward for having helped
her at weeding the garden or raking
the rubbish together. Oh, how well
the food tasted away from home, he
thought. The servants of the place
liked him ; he was such a quiet child.
After a while he grew brave enough

Hans Christiaji Andersen

to venture into the spinning room,
where a score of grey-haired women
were employed at their distaffs. To
look at, they all seemed harmless
enough.

" Don't be afraid of us," they as-
sured Hans. ''We are glad to see
you. We hear that you are such a
clever little boy.''

Many months did not pass before
Hans Christian Andersen became a
great favorite in the spinning room,
especially on account of his gift for
entertaining. He amused the lonely
old women by making chalk drawings
on the walls, illustrating the organs
of the human body. Now he would
talk about the heart and explain how
it pumped the blood through the
whole system; now about the lungs and
respiration; now about the stomach

Childhood

and digestion, etc. This knowledge
of anatomy he had acquired from a
studious reading of a book on the
subject in his father's library. Hans'
lectures were a splendid success.

'^Wliat a wise child! He" knows
as much as the doctor," some one in
the audience would declare.

" He is too wise to be able to live
long,'' another would put in. "Such
clever children die young."

At these remarks, as well as others
of a similar nature, the young lecturer
would feel highly pleased. He began
to take the old women into his con-
fidence, telling them about the big
plans he cherished. As a reward for
the pleasure he gave them, they told
him uncountable stories, some of which
Hans rewrote a long time later and
published among his fairy tales. It

Ha?is Christian Anderseti

was here that he heard the tale of Big
Claus and Little Claus for the first time.

Into the other wards of the asylum
Hans never came. He imagined that
they were filled with thieving tramps,
law-breakers of a dangerous type,
highwaymen and cutthroats, even as
he fancied the House of Correction to
be, where he had had one terrible
experience. The gatekeeper of that
institution, a friend of the cobbler' s and
sponsor of Hans at his christening, had
one evening invited the Andersens to
a party at his home in the basement
of the great dismal building, the very
sight of which was wont to drive cold
shivers down the backs of all timid
young people. Hans was taken along,
though he was so small he had to be
carried in his father's arms.

All went well till he heard the

Childhood

click of the giant entrance gate and
faced the keeper, who stood there with
a heavy bunch of keys in his hands.
Then all the horrors of the prison
filled his heart with awful fear.

"I want to go home," the child
cried. "Take me home, papa."

The cobbler managed to reassure
his little boy. There was nothing to
be afraid of, he said. The prisoners
were all locked up in their respective
cells.

"And you know," the parent con-
tinued, "we are to have mountains of
fine things to eat — jam, cakes, fruit,
and dainties you never tasted before.
Be a big boy now, and stop crying."

But Hans was no sooner seated at
table than he noticed that the food
was being served by two men in striped
clothing — two prisoners, of course. He

Hdfis Christian Andersen

gave a gasp and broke down, com-
pletely horror-stricken. The tears
streamed down his face and he trem-
bled from head to foot. The dainties
placed before him he pushed away,
and he would partake of no food
whatever. At length Mrs. Andersen
had to put him in bed in an adjoining
room, where he remained till the
party was over. For many days the
child suffered from the shock of this
adventure.

At the age of eight Hans composed
his first poem. His mother read it
and thought it pretty good. En-
couraged by her approval, the boy de-
cided to write a number of poems, as
well as dramas, stories, tragedies, novels,
etc. He made up a long list of his
planned works, and jotted down their
titles in the blank pages of his father's

Childhood

account book. He was especially bent
on composing a play, the hero of
which should be a modern king.
How did monarchs talk, Hans won-
dered. What language did they em-
ploy? He did not know. And who
could tell him ? For he must find out.
He went to his mother, who, unable
to enlighten him, questioned the neigh-
bors. They shook their heads. They
did not know how kings talked. Un-
daunted, our ambitious friend con-
sulted a dictionary of foreign words.
From this he collected several hundred
prepositions, adjectives, adverbs, verbs
and nouns, in four or five diflerent
languages, and formed sentences that
read something like this :

*' Gestern abend while Signor Garni
was walking ned ad Rue d' Amster-
dam modte han son frere.''

Hans Christian Andersen

But this was hard work, and event-
ually Hans gave it up. Besides, the
whole town was laughing at him.

Look at the crazy cobbler' s boy, ' '
urchins would shriek at him on the
streets. "The scribbler! He thinks
he can write plays for the stage."

In I 8 1 6 occurred the death of Hans
Andersen, the cobbler. The year be-
fore, he had gone away to join the
troops of Napoleon as a mercenary,
but had got no further than the
Province of Holsten, at the southern
boundary of his country, when the
news arrived that General Wellington
and his allies had crushed forever the
hopes of the Corsican conqueror at
Waterloo. It was not so much the
love of fighting that drove the cobbler
to take this step; it was his desire to
see strange places, to go abroad, to

Childhood

breathe foreign air. He was tired
of Odense, where he found time so
heavy and life so joyless. Returning
to Denmark to his old work-bench
after his futile journey, his spirit was
wrecked, and the next spring he died,
only thirty-three years of age.

Two years later his widow married
again. Hans' stepfather, Niels
Jorgensen Gundersen by name, was
also a cobbler. He seems to have
been a kindly man. At least he never
opposed the wishes of his little step-
son. Shortly after her second marriage
Mrs. Andersen, or Gundersen, moved
farther down the mill street. The
garden belonging to the new home
was both larger and prettier than that
of the old. It contained more than
one gooseberry bush, as well as cur-
rant bushes and other plants. Then,

Ha?is Christian Andersen

too, it abutted on the Odense Aa, the
rivulet in whose waters Mrs. Andersen,
standing on a rock a few feet ofl the
shore, washed her linen. In this gar-
den Hans heard the remarkable story
from the mouth of a neighbor that
the Empire of China was situated
under the bottom of the stream. He
forthwith began to expect the appear-
ance of some yellow Chinese Prince,
who should make his way up through
the muddy depths, greet him and
proceed at once by magic means to
make him rich and famous.

The boy's first visit to the theatre
was an event of far-reaching import-
ance to Hans Christian Andersen.
His mother, anxious that her child
should appear to advantage among
the well-dressed audience, did all in
her power to array him in the neatest

Childhood

of clothes on that occasion. Unable
to purchase a new suit for him, she
engaged a seamstress to make over
one of her husband's cast-off frocks to
fit the little fellow, while she herself
pinned four or five patches of- silk to-
gether across his chest so that they
represented a waistcoat. A huge cloth
was tied around his neck for a cravat,
he was washed with a better quality
of soap than that usually used by the
family, and his hair was carefully
curled and combed and parted on the
side. Thus attired, our friend entered
the playhouse for the first time.

He was delighted, charmed, en-
raptured by the performance. When
he came home the first thing he did
was to throw one of his mother's
aprons on his shoulders, like a
knight's cloak, place himself before

Hdns Christian Andersen

the mirror and imitate the antics of
the actors in the play. He remem-
bered a great many of the speeches
they had uttered, and repeated them
while his mother looked on and
listened in amazement. For hours at
a time, for days, he would carry on
this way. At last when she could re-
strain herself no longer, and when all
other attempts to make him stop
had failed, his mother gave him a
whipping.

"You must be crazy, you little
fool," she declared. "I never saw such
a child!''

Meanwhile Hans had struck up an
acquaintance with the bill-poster of
the theatre, one Peter Junker, who,
much as he would have liked to do
so, had not the power to give boys
free passes to the playhouse.

Childhood

"If only I had the money, Td go
and see the actors every night," the
child told the bill-poster. "But if
you'll give me a program now and
then, I'll help you to distribute your
bills as often as you like."

This proposition was entirely ac-
ceptable to the bill-poster. In Hans
he found an enthusiastic assistant, un-
afraid of bad weather or long walks.

"I wonder why you prize those
bills so highly. What do you do with
them?" Mr. Junker once asked.

"I study them to see how the
plays are made," the boy truthfully
replied. "When I read them I fancy
I am at the theatre. I see the stage
before me, and the scenery, and I im-
agine the whole play. Some day, you
know, I am going to be an actor
myself. ' '

Hans Christian Anderseyi

Really," the bill-poster exclaimed.

An actor, did you say ? But are you
sure you will make a good actor?"
"Well, Fm going to be famous.
That's all I know. First you go
through a lot of suflFering, and then
you grow famous. ' '

But Mrs. Andersen was not at all
pleased at her boy's determination to
go on the stage. She wanted him to
learn some trade, and believed him
to be well fitted for the profession of
tailor, because he could handle a
needle so well.

"Wouldn't you like to own a
fine tailor shop like Mr. Stegman's,
Hans?" she would ask. "Just look
how prosperous he is. He keeps four
assistants and lives in the most fash-
ionable street. I'm sure you would
succeed as a tailor."

Childhood

Hans shook his head. He would
not hear of such an idea. A company
of actors from the Royal Theatre had
just then visited Odense. Everybody
was talking about their splendid act-
ing. The boy had seen them and his
mind was made up. It all seemed so
easy to him. The road to success was
short and it ran down hill, he thought.
First he would go to Copenhagen,
the capital of Denmark, the great city
where the king lived. Then he would
call on the manager of the Royal
Theatre and state his errand. Of
course, the manager would not fail to
give him a position immediately, and
soon he would be the idol of all the
theatre-goers.

Thus the sanguine little lad rea-
soned. Certain well-to-do people in
his home town who had heard him

Ha?is Christian Ajidersen

sing and recite, had began to encour-
age him somewhat. Among those who
perceived that the cobbler's son was
an extraordinary child may be men-
tioned Colonel Hoegh-Guldberg, a
gentleman of considerable influence.
Through his efforts, Hans procured
an interview with the Prince Chris-
tian, the Governor of the Province,
later King Christian VIII. of Den-
mark, and the admiring friend of
Hans Christian Andersen.

The boy bravely stated his case to
the royal personage. But Prince
Christian had no sympathy with the
profession of acting, and he discour-
aged his youthful petitioner from en-
tertaining that aspiration.

"I cannot help 3^ou at all," said
the Prince, ''if you insist on becom-
ing an actor. If you will agree to

Childhood

give up that idea, and learn a trade,
any trade at all. Til see you through
the coming years till you are able to
earn your own living. ' '

Shortly afterwards, at Easter, Hans
was confirmed. His mother had kept
urging him to go to work, and finally,
seeing how hard it was for her to sup-
port him any more (the poor woman
even had to take in washing) the boy
got a job in a factory. Earning but a
few pennies a day at a task he hated,
our friend shed many tears over his
unhappy lot. Besides, the journey-
men employed at the factory were a
most cruel crowd. They were all the
time making fun of him, saying harsh
things to him, and took delight in
seeing him miserable. Only when he
sang did they stop abusing him and
listen with great attention and regard.

Hans CJwistia?! Andersen

"All the looms stood still while I
sang," Andersen tells us in his auto-
biography.

One day after he had been insulted
despicably by a coarse journeyman,
Mrs. Andersen took her boy out of
the factory. Hans begged and begged
her to let him go to Copenhagen.

"I know I shall be famous," he
pleaded, "and rich, too, and I'll give
you lots of money and fine clothes
and things. Only let me go."

This time the cobbler's wife, who
had unbounded belief in the predic-
tions of charlatans, went with her
boy to an old fortune-teller, who de-
clared that Hans Christian Andersen
would become famous, so famous
indeed that he would live to see
the city of Odense illumined in his
honour. That settled all of Mrs.

"5l

Childhood

Andersen's doubts and she gave her
consent.

Then Hans, in scrambling haste,
collected some seven dollars from a
number of his well-wishers, secured a
few letters of introduction to persons
of prominence in the capital, wrapped
up his few belongings in a bundle,
and was ready for the long wished-for
journey in the stage-coach to Copen-
hagen. His poor old grandmother
w^as present at his departure. Tear-
fully she threw her arms around her
beloved grandson, wishing him God-
speed. They never saw each other
again, for three years later the cob-
bler's mother died and was buried in
the churchyard of the poor.

On Monday, September 6, 1 8 1 9,
Hans Christian Andersen, with less
than seven dollars in his pocket, with-

Hans Christian Andersen

out a friend or even an acquaintance in
the big city, arrived in Copenhagen,
full of courage and ambition, and
energy of a quality seldom surpassed
in man.

The Young Man

T TANS was the first of the passsen-
gers to alight from the stage
when it stopped at the end of its jour-
ney, just outside the city gate. His
body felt somewhat stiff and sore from
the jolting of a ride covering almost
one hundred miles, over rough roads,
and he could have devoured a big
meal. The other travellers had com-
paratively small reason to complain;
they had sat on soft cushions in the
coach, while Hans had occupied a
hard seat on the box beside the driver,
as a special "fare.'' But then, by en-
during this hardship he had saved
one-half the regular price of the long

Hans Christian Andersen

journey. Now the ordeal was over;
the boy paid the driver his three rix
dollars ('^i.5oinour moneyV tucked
his bundle under his arm and hurried
on along the street that led into the
main section of the town.

To think that he had really arrived
at his destination ! How strange it
seemed! Was he not dreaming? Was
this actually Copenhagen, the home
of King Frederick VI and his court,
of the Royal Theatre and all its actors
and actresses? He stopped for a mo-
ment to look ahead. Yes, that heaven-
reaching spire yonder certainly be-
longed to the Church of Our Lady.
He recognized it from pictures he had
seen. That huge funnel-shaped struc-
ture a little to the left could only be
the famous ancient Round Tower (up
whose zigzag pathway Peter the Great

The Young Man

of Russia is said to have ridden on
horse back) , and those gables looming
up amid the green foliage of a park —
what were they but the Rosenborg
Castle? No, he was not dreaming,
but wide awake. His cheeks began
to glow with expectancy. He in-
stantly felt at home now, though he
knew not a single person among the
city's three hundred thousand in-
habitants.

After securing temporary lodgings
and enjoying some light refreshment,
Hans hastened to the site of the Royal
Theatre, which faces the King's New
Square. The vision of the great build-
ing deeply aflFected him. He could not
see enough of it, and walked around to
admire it from every side. It was mag-
nificent, he thought. Standing at the
stage entrance, he said, half aloud :

Ham Christian Andersen

"Some day PU be passing in and
out of this door, and it won't be long
from now, God willing.''

Thereupon he went back to the
main entrance and up the stairway to
glance at the play-bill for the even-
ing's performance. How he wished
he could have aflorded to buy a ticket
for no matter how poor a seat in the
top gallery! It was such a temptation.

' 'Want a ticket for to-night' s play?' '
asked the voice of a well-dressed man
at his shoulder.

Hans turned quickly, his heart
leaping high with joy. The stranger
was holding out a handful of tickets
to him. Selecting one from the
bunch, the boy doffed his cap politely
and began to thank his supposed bene-
factor with all his heart, when—

"You scoundrel! You loafer!"

The Young Man

cried the ticket speculator (for such
he was). 'Til teach you to play
horse with me. Give back that ticket
and clear out of this before I knock
your head off.''

"I meant no harm," poor Hans
sobbed. "I only thought — ''

But before he could finish his ex-
planation the rude man raised his arm
to strike, and the cobbler's son, terri-
fied, took to his heels. This was his
first disheartening experience of life
at the metropolis. As we shall see,
many others were to follow.

The very next day, dressed in the
finest garments he owned — shoes pol-
ished to a glitter, hair carefully curled
and combed— Hans Christian Ander-
sen went to call on a celebrated ballet
dancer, one Madame Schall. He
was convinced that as soon as this

Hans Christian Andersen

lady had seen him perform she would
take an interest in him and gladly do
what she could for him. He had a
letter of introduction to her from Mr.
Iversen, an Odense printer. Now,
Madame Schall had never met or even
heard of Mr. Iversen, who knew her
merely through the newspaper ac-
counts of her feats. But after reading
the printer's note, which spoke of
Hans as a clever lad, full of ambition,
the famous dancer decided to receive
her caller, so she instructed her maid
to show him in. In marched Hans,
confident and dignified. Approaching
the elegantly gowned lady, he bowed
low, and thus addressed her:

''May I have the honour of giving
you an exhibition of my art, Ma-
dame?''

Without waiting for a reply, he

The Young Man

gave a queer leap into the air, striking
his heels together. Thereupon he be-
gan to sing and dance a part from
Cinderella, using his cap for a tam-
bourine. At first, Madame Schall,
too amazed to act, simply sat back
in her chair and looked on. But little
by little, her guest showing no incli-
nation to stop his antics, she con-
cluded he must be a lunatic. Then
she got up, thoroughly angry, and
summoning her maid, the two women
forcibly ejected the unwelcome per-
former, showering words of reproach
upon him the while. Again tears filled
the eyes of our friend. To no pur-
pose did he ask for time to explain
the object of his visit. In vain did he
pray for the stern lady's forgiveness.
His words fell upon deaf ears. The
door slammed in his face; behind it

Hans Christian Andersen

Stood Madame Schall, congratulating
herself on having got rid of the boy
who had come hoping to gain her
sympathy.

To whom could he now appeal?
His money was fast vanishing. Soon
he would be penniless — and what
then? But it would not do to lose
heart. Now was the time to show his
mettle. He pooh-poohed this one
little discouragement and decided that
his next step should be a most impor-
tant one.

"I'll go and see the manager-in-
chief of the Royal Theatre," said
Hans to himself. ''He's the man to
befriend me."

But it was no easy matter for an
unrecommended stranger to secure an
audience with this high official. Again
and again young Andersen called to

The Young Man

learn that the manager was "too busy
to see anyone. ' ' But he persevered and
finally succeeded in being admitted
into the Presence.

"Well, young man, what is the
nature of your business here" ? 'Cham-
berlain Holstein demanded, eyeing
the applicant closely.

Not at all frustrated by the some-
what gruff greeting, Hans began to
speak of his plans for the future, ex-
plaining how eager he was to go on
the stage, what high praise his towns-
men had lavished upon his singing
and dancing. In short he talked with
great eloquence and enthusiasm and
even offered to display his ability then
and there. But Mr. Holstein raised
his hand in protest:

"No, no,'' he declared, "you are
too lean for the stage."

Hans Christian Andersen

The ambitious boy had a good re-
ply ready :

"If you'll but engage me at an
annual salary of loo rix dollars, sir, I
shall get fat soon enough. "

Mr. Holstein smiled but shook his
head. That ended the interview.

On his way homeward through the
crowded streets, Hans suddenly re-
membered that he had read about an
Italian, one Siboni, in the newspapers.
This man was director of the Royal
Conservatory of Music. Why not try
him? It might be that he would
praise his voice as had Colonel Hoegh
Guldberg of Odense. Getting hold of
a city directory he looked up the ad-
dress of Mr. Siboni and repaired to
the latter' s residence. The director's
housekeeper met Hans at the door.
Oh, you can't see Mr. Siboni

( (

The Young Man

now, " she exclaimed. "He is enter-
taining a party of friends — famous
men — and can't be interrupted. You'll
have to come again some other day. "

"But I must see him," Hans
pleaded. "My very life depends on
it. I want him to hear me sing and
recite. I 'm a poor boy and I Ve come
all the way from Odense to seek my
fortune here. All I ask is a chance to
be heard. I am going to be famous
some day, clairvoyants have so prophe-
sied and 1 know it myself. But now
I am in desperate straits. Please let
me in, that I may prove my ability
before Mr. Siboni, then maybe he
will do something for me. Ah, don't
refuse.

After some further talk, the house-
keeper, unable to resist the persuasive
manner of young Andersen, admitted

Hafis Christian Afidersen

him. That was a glorious moment
for the cobbler's son. Strangely ex-
cited when he faced the company of
famous men, who were all in high
spirits, he could say nothing for a
minute or two. But suddenly his
stage-fright disappeared, his power of
speech returned to him, and he ap-
prised Mr. Siboni of the nature of
his errand.

'*Aha, " the music director ex-
claimed. ''You want to sing and re-
cite and dance for us. Well now, that
isn't bad. What say you, gentlemen?
Shall we accept this young man's offer
to entertain us?"

"By all means," they cried in
chorus.

Hans Christian Andersen bowed
gratefully and straightway began to
recite a certain piece he had memor-

The Young Man

ized from the works of one of the
classic Danish poets. Little by little,
the charm of the situation commenced
to overwhelm him. He felt the gaze
of many eyes following his movements
critically. He heard his own* voice
resounding through the great room —
saw the fashionably attired gentlemen
seated at the table before their spark-
ling champagne. What would they
say; how would they receive his first
selection ?

At last he finished, and all ex-
hausted, the tears streaming down his
cheeks, he groped for a chair. Then
the applause broke forth.

"That boy will amount to some-
thing," cried one of the older gentle-
men of the company. "Mark my
words, he will succeed."

The speaker of these prophetic

Hans Christian Andersen

words was Jens Baggesen, one of the
most celebrated poets of his time.

"I think so too/* another gentle-
man, the composer Weyse, declared.
''We must do something for that boy.
1 have been poor and friendless my-
self, and I know what it means. Til
head a subscription for him."

"rll give him vocal training
gratis," Mr. Siboni himself added.

There was no happier boy than
Hans Christian Andersen in Copen-
hagen that evening, nor any more
grateful one. His joy kept him awake
till far in the night, for hours after
he had expressed his thankfulness to
God in prayer. Now he could write
the good news to his mother and
the kind people in Odense who had
''chipped in" the fourteen rix dollars
that were the means of his reaching

The Young Man

Copenhagen. It was all so wonderful.
After moving into permanent quar-
ters, the boy commenced his studies
in vocal culture under Professor
Siboni. Enthusiastic and diligent, he
naturally made good progress. He
seized every opportunity to make new
acquaintances and to gain the sym-
pathy of those he came into contact
with. You had only to say a kind word
to him, or to listen to his talk with
pleasant patience and Hans would
count you his friend and open his
whole heart to you. In a surprisingly
short time he had become almost a
familiar figure, a sort of boy-about-
town at the capital. Hundreds of
people knew about young Andersen,
the Odense lad, to whom Director
Siboni was giving vocal lessons with-
out pay, and who was being helped

Hans Christian Ajidersen

by such men as Baggesen and Weyse.

Then came the fateful hour when
Hans' voice failed, lost its silvery ca-
dence and sw^eetness. He could sing
no longer. There was no more music
in his throat than in a crow's "caw,
caw. ' '

"Oh well, if I can't be an opera
singer, I may perhaps become an
actor," thought young Andersen, un-
dismayed.

Thanks to the recommendation
of Professor Frederick Guldberg, a
brother of the Odense colonel, who
admired the boy's energy and talent,
Hans secured free instruction in dra-
matic art by an excellent teacher,
Lindberg by name. However, this
tutor was not long in discovering that
his pupil would never make a good
actor. His ungainly figure, his awk-

The Young Man

ward movements, his homely features
— for these natural disadvantages there
was no help.

"Heaven only knows what you
are to be,'' said Mr. Lindberg. "One
thing is certain, you are not fitted for
the stage."

All this time, of course, our friend
had been living on charity. A num-
ber of kind men had pledged them-
selves to contribute a small sum
monthly for his support, but the
money thus collected barely sufficed
to keep him in board and lodging. It
was seldom that he could afford to eat
three decent meals a day. At times a
bun and a cup of tasteless coffee rep-
resented his breakfast, while for din-
ner he got nothing more than a plate
of barley soup or porridge to a glass
of skimmed milk.

Hans Christian Andersen

But Hans did not allow poverty to
make him negligent or slip-shod as to
his dress. Every morning he brushed
his clothing most carefully. If a
thread in the cheap fabric of his coat
or trousers had turned w^hite, instantly
he would dye it black with ink. He
even mended his shoes, darned his
stockings, patched his shirts, when-
ever necessary. He had to wear the
same suit of clothes for so long that
he outgrew it, so that he could hardly
button his coat and did not dare to
swing his arms freely or stoop lest
some seam should rip. Thus ham-
pered in his movements he looked
more awkward than ever, but he
would rather have people ascribe his
ungainliness to his body than know
the secret.

After being dismissed by Mr. Lind-

The Young Man

berg the plucky young fellow made
application to enter the dancing
school that was and is still attached
to the Royal Theatre. This school
prepares its pupils for the ballet, which
is an important function of this play-
house. His application granted, Hans
set about his task with renewed
vigor, persevering till he received a
part in the chorus of a ballet called
Armida, on which occasion his name
appeared on the programme for the
first time.

Although he considered this a rare
privilege and one of which he was
duly proud, the boy realized that his
instructor was right in warning him
that he would never rise above the
menial position of a "super." So
now, having regained his voice, he
caused himself to be transferred to the

Hans Christian Andersen

chorus school. Here his fellow pupils
abused and maltreated him despicably
at the rehearsals. They would throw
pinches of snuff into his mouth while
he was singing, jostled and tripped
him, and if he threatened to com-
plain to the management, a slap in
the face would be their answer. They
made life miserable for him to such
an extent that he all but lost hope.
How could his companions be so un-
kind, especially when he did absolutely
nothing to incur their disfavor? Were
they jealous of him ? Or was it merely
because they found him ridiculous —
found mean pleasure in seeing him
weep when they bullied him, and be-
cause he would not mingle with them
as freely as they desired. Then it hap-
pened at the close of the season, in 1822,
that Hans Christian Andersen got his

The YouTjg Man

discharge from the chorus school of
the Royal Theatre.

How did he take this dire dis-
couragement' Did he sit down, with
folded arms and bemoan his fate?
Did he decide that he had better give
up his high aims and turn back to
the easy walks of life, to become a
tailor, for instance, as his mother and
others had advised him to in days
gone by? Did he for one moment
abandon his purpose or tremble under
the conviction that his dream of fame
was foolish, unattainable?

He did not. Although for want
of lodgings he had spent many a
night on the benches in the parks,
although his body had sufltered sorely
from the winter's cold, although he
had lived on dr^^ bread and water for
periods of time seemingly endless, he

Hans Christian Andersen

never lost sight of the goal, he pushed
on, he persevered.

As we know, Hans made it a point
to enlarge his circle of acquaintances
continually. It was almost a mania
with him to take people into his con-
fidence. He never hesitated to tell,
even to a person he had met for the
first time, the story of his struggles
and all about the laurels he expected
to gain. In most cases, however, he
reaped only disappointment for his
frankness. Frequently, after hearing
him out, his supposed well-wishers
would turn their backs on him and
laugh derisively. Mistaking his honest
pride for silly vanity, they judged him
a conceited fool. Even Professor
Guldberg so considered him.

That well-meaning old gentleman
had lost his faith in Hans the moment

The Young Man

our friend began to write, which the
boy did with serious intent a few
months prior to his dismissal from the
chorus school. He wrote and sub-
mitted to the Royal Theatre a long
five-act tragedy, which was promptly
rejected. Immediately afterward he
composed a second tragedy. This he
read to the pastor of the church he
attended, the Rev. Mr. Gutfeld. Mr.
Gutfeld thought so well of this play
that he wrote a letter recommending
it to the board of directors of the
Royal Theatre. Six weeks later (it
took Hans but two weeks to write it)
the manuscript came back.

"Never mind," Mr. Gutfeld en-
couraged, ' ' I am sure you will suc-
ceed as an author. I am going to
introduce you to Chancellor Jonas
Collin, of whom you have heard. He

Hans Christian Andersen

is one of the directors of the theatre,
and even though he couldn't accept
your play, I am sure he found it a
meritorious piece of work for a boy
of your age, without an education.
Besides, Chancellor Collin is noted
for his kind acts. He will under-
stand you, and help you. Just wait
and see."

Young Andersen did not have to
wait long. Good luck was ready to
knock at his door. His three years
of hardships were drawing to a close.

In due time Hans appeared before
Chancellor Collin, the man in whom
he was to find a second father, a guar-
dian, a protector.

"I understand that you have never
had the benefit of proper schooling,'*
said Mr. Collin. ''You should not ex-
pect to be able to write plays for the

The Young Man

stage before you have gone through a
course of study. Now how would
you like to enter some Latin school ?' '

"Oh, that's what I've wanted to
do for years/' Hans cried, his eyes
gleaming with hope. "But I've
never had the means."

"Well," Mr. Collin continued,
"I think something ought to be done
for you, and I will bring your case
before King Frederick without delay.
Possibly I can induce him to grant
you an annuity large enough to defray
your most necessary expenses while
you are studying. ' '

A few days later the hopeful lad
received notice that Mr. Collin's ef-
forts in his behalf had met with suc-
cess. Also that the Board of Public
Education had agreed to grant him
free tuition at the Latin school at

Hans Chnstian Anderse?i

Slagelse, a little place situated about
fifty miles east of Copenhagen.

It would be hard to describe our
friend's feelings when he received
those glad tidings. He now realized
that he was out of the crooked
tangled paths that led nowhere, and
in the straight road to achievement,
to success. His earliest, perhaps his
fondest, hope fulfilled, he felt an im-
mense gratitude toward God and all
men. He readily forgave the persons
who had wronged him — Madame
Schall, his former landlady, the rough
fellows of the chorus school, and all
the rest. Indeed in his extreme joy he
could scarce resist the impulse to im-
part even to these the news of his bright
prospects. He was so jubilant that he
felt like embracing the whole world.

So,in theiallof I 8 2 2, we find Hans

The Young Man

Christian Andersen, now seventeen
and a half years of age, a student at
Slagelse, boarding and lodging at the
home of a certain Mrs. Henneberg.
As soon as the cobbler's son was fairly-
settled in his new quarters, he began
to look about for pleasant companion-
ship. A glance or two convinced
him that he was not easily going to
make friends among his class-mates,
boys all younger than himself, noisy,
mischievous, unruly fellows. To them
he appeared a prig, because he would
express his disapproval at some of
their pranks, one of which was to
study their lessons "on the sly"
during church service. Whenever he
attempted to show them that such
conduct was wicked they would
scornfully advise him to do as they
did or "mind his own aflairs."

Ha?is Christian Andersen

Mrs. Henneberg proved a fine
boarding mistress. For a paltry con-
sideration she gave Hans good food
aplenty as well as a snug warm bed to
sleep in. The boy was entirely pleased
with his stay at her home, although
he dreadfully missed — especially during
the first two or three months — the
crowded streets and interesting sights
of Copenhagen. Here there were no
famous men for him to meet, no ele-
gant homes to visit, nothing unusual
to look at.

Young Andersen spent the Christ-
mas holidays at the capital. They
were pleasant days of course, passed
as they were among well-wishers and
friends. But his Easter vacation was
to be the unforgetable time of his
life, finding him at home in Odense,
after three and a half years of absence.

The Young Man

Mrs. Andersen was again a widow,
her second husband having died the
previous year. All his wearing apparel
and tools had to be sold to help pay
the funeral expenses. Their house-
hold effects were appraised ^t nine
dollars, and consisted of a bedstead,
some tattered bed clothes, a small
table, two rickety chairs, an old pine-
wood chest, some damaged porcelain
and glasses, together with a few
articles of clothing. So it will be seen
that the cobbler's widow could hardly
have been left in a more wretched
state at the hour of her husband's
death.

Her home was now with her old
crazy father-in-law, Hans' grand-
father. How the wan features of the
poor mother lighted up with joy
when she came to stand face to face

Hcvis Christian Andersen

with her beloved boy again. Always
proud of him, her strange nature fairly
overflowed with gratification now.
She could not wait to hear him tell
all the stories of his experiences. She
wanted to run out and call the neigh-
bors in to see what a fine lad Hans
had grown to be.

"They thought you would never
amount to anything," she exclaimed,
"but now they shall see for them-
selves. ' '

And when young Andersen passed
through the streets of his neighbor-
hood, people would open their win-
dows, put out their heads and say to
each other:

"Look, that's the cobbler's boy,
who is now studying at the King's
expense. I would never have thought
it, would you ?"

The Young Man

"Too bad his old grandmother is
dead/' another would declare, *'for
she simply adored that boy/'

Hans did not spend a great deal of
time with his mother, however. It
was not that his fear of his crazy old
grandfather still quivered in him, but
he was literally swamped with invita-
tions to visit the homes of well-wishers
and friends. They were all eager to
see him again and give themselves the
pleasure of entertaining him. Nobody
laughed or jeered at him now.
Nobody snickered when he told that
he still expected to be famous before
very, very long. On the contrary,
Odense had begun to believe in the
ability of Hans Christian Andersen.

One day, in company with mem-
bers of the families of the Bishop and
Colonel Hoegh Guldberg, leaders in

Hans Christian Andersen

society, our friend took a sail down
the Odense Aa. This stream is over a
mile long, and in places about thirty-
feet wide. Through open fields it
flows out and around the beautiful
woods called *' Lady's Beeches,"
which, like a long tender arm, it half
embraces.

This delightful outing with persons
of such high station in life seemed to
Hans a supreme privilege. There
came a day, as we shall see, when
the palaces of kings were opened to
him, when he could call himself the
friend of three or four monarchs,
when rare public honors were con-
ferred upon him, when he could
feel that he was not only one of the
most famous men in the world, but
undoubtedly one of the most beloved.
And yet no happiness that ever en-

The Young Man

tered his heart in after life could quite

equal the utter joy he felt on that
excursion down the stream with the
Bishop and the Colonel and their
wives and well-bred, handsomely-
dressed children.

"Of such good fortune/' he ex-
claimed to his mother, who had tears
of pride in her eyes, "I never dreamed
when I was the ugly duckling.''

Let us now have a look inside the
Slagelse Latin School. How did Hans
get on with his teachers, and what
sort of men were they? What sort of
a student was he ?

If our friend had had a hundred
enemies, and if these, putting their
wicked heads together, had conspired
to inflict upon their victim some ex-
treme polite torture, they would hardly
have been able to serve their design

Htins Christian Andersen

better than by sending him to this
very academy.

Simon Meisling — that was the name
of the head-master — was a shabby,
mean, vindictive, brutal, unclean, red-
headed wretch. He could scold like
an old hag, roar like a wild beast, rave
like a mad dog. He treated his pupils
as though they were his slaves. While
he had no favorites, and while no one
entirely escaped the fire and rain of
his wrath, it was at Hans Christian
Andersen that he hurled his vilest
words and aimed the sharpest arrows
of his taunts. Loafer, good-for-noth-
ing, dunce, blockhead, idiot, fool —
these are some of the mildest invectives
Simon Meisling delighted in applying
to our friend.

"Ha, you long legged lubber,''
he shrieked one day when, as it hap-

The Young Man

pened, young Andersen had mistaken
an iota for an epsilon while conju-
gating some Greek verb. "You have
the audacity to twist around your
teacher's questions. You deserve such
a crack over your head that it would
knock you silly.''

And when tears began to gather in
the sensitive boy's eyes and trickle
down his cheeks, the head-master
snickered:

"Wipe them dry on a brick. That
would be poetic.

Witnesses have told how, when Hans
got up to recite before the irate man,
his knees would tremble so that the
whole bench shook behind him. He
had a mortal fear of Simon Meisling.
It is hard to see how he could help
despising or hating this tyrant, who
was the cause of many of his life's

Hans Christian Andersen

most miserable days. Again and again,
after some fresh display of temper on
the head-master's part, our friend sat
down to write and tell Chancellor
Collin all about his troubles. And he
did write more than once about the
matter, but he never reported the
worst humiliations he had suflFered,
and Mr. Collin, unable to believe that
things could really be so bad as Hans
described them, would reply:

''Don't get discouraged. I am
sure Mr. Meisling means well by you.
Keep a stiflF upper lip now and work
hard.''

There is not much to be said favor-
able to the corps of instructors under
Simon Meisling. The tutor in Danish
was an old fogy, crabbed and irritable.
The history and geography teacher
knew his subjects but was a tyrant

The Young Man

like Meisling. The man who taught
mathematics was a hopeless drunkard.
Finally, the language master was very
poor and could not keep order in his
classes.

Hans had to study hard to .keep up
with his classmates. They were in
school reading text books all the while
that he was going through various ex-
periences at Copenhagen, and nat-
urally they had an immense advantage
over him. But young Andersen
struggled on bravely, denying himself
nearly every pleasure that might have
made his heart a little lighter. He
was fond of mathematics and history,
but he could never master his Latin.
A girl of his own age, helped him
now and then with his French and
German, subjects at which he did
fairly well. Hans rewarded her by

Hans Christian Andersen

giving her copies of the verses he
wrote. For verses and stories he would
write — late at night, too, when prac-
tically every one of Slagelse's two
thousand inhabitants was fast asleep.

Two years had passed when, in the
fall of I 825, Simon Meisling suddenly
asked Hans to come and live with him.

"But I'm quite satisfied with the
treatment I receive at Mrs. Henne-
berg's, " Hans replied, at loss to know
just what the head-master meant by
offering to take him into his home.

"Yes, but you see I want you to
have the full benefit of such private
tutoring as I can give you,'' the prin-
cipal insisted. "We won't charge
you one penny more than you are
paying Mrs. Henneberg for board and
lodging and you may be sure my wife
will be like a mother to you.' '

The Young Man

What in the world had happened
to Mr. Meisling^ Did he feel remorse
of heart and was he going to tr>^ to
right the wrongs he had done his
poor pupil?

After some hesitation, our friend
entered (as \\^ may say) the lion's
den. This risky step he took at the
end of October, 1825. For several
months the Meislings seemed to vie
with each other in being nice to Hans.
The head-master's ways were trans-
formed as if by a miracle He was
polite, considerate, patient. He made
puns, told funny anecdotes and helped
Hans to prepare his lessons for the
next day. Mrs. Meisling treated Hans
like a son (she had no children), flat-
tered him, showed him every kind-
ness. I am not sure but she evxn
praised his verses.

Hans Christian Andersen

What wonder then, that when
Simon Meisling applied for and was
appointed to the head-mastership of
the Latin school at Helsingor, or Elsi-
nore, a place about fifty miles north
of Copenhagen, young Andersen
readily accepted his ofTer to go along.
The following letter which Hans
wrote to a friend, one Emil Hundrup,
of Slagelse, son of a hospital surgeon
there, shortly after having been in-
stalled in the new school, explains
itself.

"Dear Friend: Matters are in a
very bad state with me. Though I
get much better marks here than I
got at Slagelse, Meisling was never so
dissatisfied with me as he is at present.
Never have I felt so unhappy, never
have 1 so distrusted myself. I am
worthless and good for nothing,

The Young Man

and will never amount to anything —
never ! ' '

The head-master had again begun
to look daggers at him, abuse him
after his old fashion and make him
the scapegoat and laughing stock of
the whole school. Hans would be so
confused in recitations before Meisling
that, although he knew his lessons to
perfection, he lost all control over
himself and frequently gave most
foolish answers to the principal 's ques-
tions, at which the latter would of
course rave worse than ever. If he
complained that the wretched room
he occupied in the Meisling' s home
was so cold that he could scarcely
sleep or study in it, Mrs. Meisling
would severely rebuke him, even be-
fore strangers, saying that she was
losing money on him, and that he

Ha?is Christian Andersen

ought to be glad he had any roof over
his head at all.

The climax came one day in the
spring of 1827. During a visit to
Copenhagen Hans had read one of
his latest poems, entitled The Dying
Child, to a number of his friends, who
thought it very beautiful and praised
it highly. Meisling, somehow, heard
of this, and one evening while young
Andersen was poring over his books
in his room, the rude man — without
knocking of course — entered:

" Let me look at that last poem of
yours, Andersen," he demanded.

Hans instantly began to tremble,
knowing the head-master's violent
aversion to his practice of writing.

"Fve heard some one say that it's
pretty good," Simon Meisling went
on, ''and if that be really the case,

The Young Man

rll forgive you for composing verses
altogether. Yes, if there's a single
spark of merit in it Til forgive you,
and never reproach you for writing
poems again.''

Our friend grew hopeful,- for he
knew that he had never written any-
thing more beautiful than The Dying
Child, As he handed the verses to the
head-master, he oflFered up a silent
prayer to God that Simon Meisling
might like it. Anxiously he studied
the features of his persecutor while
the latter was reading the paper. He
was not kept in suspense for long.

"Do you call this poetry?" the
principal roared, flinging the poem
away. "This stupid, sentimental rot!
This silly foppery! This rubbish!''

And he went on to abuse Hans
more mercilessly, more cruelly than

Haris Christian Andersen

ever. Young Andersen bore it all
without a murmur, though his heart
was wrung with agony. However,
the next day he wrote a long letter to
Mr. Collin, in which he implored to
be removed from Meisling's school.
He spoke plainly this time of how ill
he was being treated.

As soon as he had read that letter,
the boy's benefactor communicated
with one of the teachers of the Latin
school, who informed him that Hans'
statements as to the head-master's
disgraceful conduct toward him were
all true. Then, without delay, Mr.
Collin hurried to Elsinore and took
young Andersen away with him to
Copenhagen, where he engaged a
private tutor for his grateful young
friend. And so, in October, i 828, at
the age of twenty-three, Hans Chris-

The Young Man

tian Andersen, proud, self-reliant and
happy again, passed his entrance ex-
aminations to the University of Co-
penhagen.

A^aGq33 99

Ill

Through Foreign Lands

Ill

Through Foreign Lands

\ BOUT a year after his enrollment
as a college student, Andersen
published (at his own expense) a little
humorous book which met with im-
mediate, extraordinary success. The
most important publisher in Copen-
hagen purchased the rights for a
second edition, and soon a third
printing was made necessary. By that
time the author had had a play
produced on the stage of the Royal
Theatre, and in i 830 he issued a vol-
ume of poems. All these performances
served to fatten his purse considerably,
as well as helped to establish his repu-
tation as a writer, to say nothing of

103

Hans Christian AriderseJi

how they cheered his spirit. Fame
was the prize he had set his heart
upon, and that prize now seemed
close at hand.

^'All homes began to be open to
me/' he writes in his Autobiography.
"I flew from circle to circle in happy
self-contentment. I liked to listen to
the sounding bell of praise. I had
such an overflow of youth and happi-
ness. Life lay bright with sunshine
before me."

But Hans was of a roving disposi-
tion— a veritable bird of passage. Like
his father, he longed to visit foreign
countries, to observe strange customs,
see unfamiliar sights, come into con-
tact with thousands of people and
store his mind continually with fresh
impressions. Switzerland, Germany,
France, Italy — he would explore these

104

Through Foreign Lands

lands as he had already explored
Copenhagen. He would climb the
Alps, sail down the Rhine, mingle
with gay Parisian crowds, tread the
crusted lava of Mount Vesuvius, enjoy
Florentine and Roman holidays, visit
theatres, art galleries, museums — in
short he would let nothing escape his
eye that could tend to educate or in-
spire him.

Early ini 8 3 3, after the publication
of a book of poetry, The Twelve
Months of the Year^ which the king
had graciously permitted the author
to dedicate to him, Andersen decided
to go and present a copy of this book
to Frederick VI, to whom, as he says,
he "looked up with true reverence
and heartfelt gratitude."

Hans confided his project to a
friend who, knowing how anxious the

105

Hans Christian Andersen

young man was to go abroad, and
how his plans depended on the possi-
bility of the king's granting him a
so-called stipend for travelling — thus
advised him:

"When you present the king with
a copy of your book/' said Andersen's
well - wisher, who was thoroughly
familiar with the routine of such
matters, "tell him briefly and clearly
who you are. Tell him that, since
becoming a student you have made
your way alone; that travel will, more
than anything else, serve to complete
your education. Then the king will
probably tell you to submit your
petition, which you are to have with
you, and thereupon you will hand it
to him."

"I think it monstrous," Hans re-
plied, "that at the same moment when

106

'Through Foreign Lands

I give him a copy of my book, I
should ask a favor of him."

"That's the way/' his friend
laughed. "The king is very well
aware that you are giving him the
book in order to ask for something. '*

"This made me almost desperately
angry," Hans tells us, but on his
companion's insisting that there was
no other effective means, the young
author gave in. Let us hear his own
description of the audience with
Frederick VI.

"The audience must have been
very comical indeed. My heart was
beating with fear, and when the king,
in his peculiar manner, stepped ab-
ruptly toward me and asked me
what book I was bringing him, I
answered :

" ^A cycle of poems.'

107

Hnns Christian Andersen

" <A cycle — cycle — what do you
mean? '

''Then I became quite discon-
certed and said:

"'It is some verses to Denmark.'

"The King smiled.

" ' Well, well, it is very good, thank
you,' and so he nodded and dismissed

me. But as I had not yet begun on
my real errand, I told him that I had
still something more to say to him ;
and now, without hesitation, I spoke
of my studies and how I had gone
through them. <That is all very
praiseworthy,' said the king. And
when I reached the point of a stipend
for travelling, he answered as I had
been told he would :

"'Well, send me your petition.'
'"Yes, sire,' exclaimed I, in all
simplicity, 'I have it with me. But

108

Through Foreign Lands

it seems to me so dreadful that I
should bring it along with the book.

1 have been told that I ought to do
so, that it was the proper thing to do,
but I find it so dreadful ; it is not like
me. ' And tears rushed from my eyes.
The good king laughed heartily,
nodded in a friendly fashion, and took
the petition. I made a bow and ran
away at full speed."

In due time Andersen's petition
was granted, and on Monday, April

2 2d, I 8 3 3, he left Copenhagen for his
first long journey abroad, to be gone
for sixteen months. Let us accompany
him here and there on the way.

After brief stops at Hamburg,
Cassel and Frankfort, Hans reached
the Rhine at the city of Mainz, where
he climbed into a heavy, clumsy stage-
coach, bound for Paris. Tired and

109

Hans Christian Andersen

sleepy, from a comfortless seventy-
hour ride, he entered the French capi-
tol on the 10th of May.

Paris was like one huge World's
Fair to Andersen — a vast tangle of too-
much - to -see. Enthusiastic, wide-
awake, he hurried from attraction to
attraction — so fast indeed that his
memory failed to preserve distinct im-
pressions. And of course he called
on famous men — Victor Hugo, the
author, Cherubini, the composer, and
other celebrities, from whom he se-
cured autographs for his scrap-book.

It was with a blended sense of
pride and self-consciousness that he
would stroll down the Champs Elysee
of a pleasant afternoon — he, Hans
Christian, only son of Andersen, the
Odense cobbler. As yet he had
written none of the immortal fairy-
no

Through Foreign Lands

tales that were destined to be trans-
lated into every living language and
read by millions ; as yet his name was
unknown outside of Scandinavia.
Nevertheless four or five of his coun-
try's greatest men had agreed that he
was a true poet, and being a true poet
he would surely become a famous one.
Less than fourteen years had elapsed
since the memorable day of his last
aflFectionate parting with his old
grandmother on the outskirts of
Odense, when he set out to make his
mark in the world. Even now, at
times, her tearful "God be with you,
my lad'' sounded in his ears.

None of all the sights he beheld in
France moved him so deeply as his
visit to the palace at Versailles, the
former home of Napoleon. He en-
tered the edifice with bated breath,

111

Hans Christian Andersen

feeling as though he was stepping
upon holy ground. Admiration and
reverence kindled his blood ; these
were the familiar haunts of the con-
quering Corsican — his father's hero
and his own. In that chair he had
sat, at that table ! By that window
he had stood — dreaming, perhaps, of
new triumphs. In the beautiful halls
the echo of his voice seemed to linger
still, with a sense of its owner's pres-
ence. Had he not received his gen-
erals there and discussed grave matters-
of state ?

'' I entered Napoleon's bed cham-
ber with pious feelings," Hans writes.
"All was there in the same state as
when he inhabited it. The walls had
yellow tapestry and the bed yellow
curtains. A little stairway led up to
the latter article. I laid my hand on

112

Through Foreign Lands

one of the steps that had been touched
by his foot. I touched the pillow
where his head had lain. If I had
been alone, I surely should have knelt
by the bed. I looked up to him as a
Roman Catholic to his saint. ' '•

Twelve years previous to this, as
we may remember. Napoleon had
died in captivity, weary and alone,
on the island of St. Helena.

The beginning of August found
Hans travelling across the plains of
France toward the Jura Mountains.
As the rumbling diligence was passing
through a little village, late in the
evening, the driver suddenly drew up
his horses, and the next moment An-
dersen, who for several hours had
been his only passenger, saw, or rather
heard, him (for it was pitch dark)
assist two young girls into the vehicle.

113

Hans Christian A?idersen

((

If we do not let them drive
with us, they will be obliged to
walk four or five miles over this
lonely road,'' explained the driver.
"I believe in being nice to farmer's
daughters of these parts and I hope
you won't object to having them for
company.'*

''Not at all," Hans — ever polite
to ladies — replied, trying in vain to
peer through the darkness and catch
a glimpse of the faces of his two
fellow -passengers, who indeed were
straining their eyes to distinguish his
features. Failing utterly in this, they
began to whisper and titter viva-
ciously. Such carryings on greatly
amused the man from the north. He
understood that they were curious to
know something about him, but he
decided to keep quiet in the darkest

114

Through Foreign Lands

corner of the compartment and let
them speak first. Finally one of the
young women asked Hans if he was a
Frenchman.

"No," Andersen replied, "I come
from Denmark.""

At this, speaking in chorus, they
began to assure their invisible com-
panion that they knew Denmark,
from top to bottom, from their
geography. Denmark, they insisted,
was a part of Norway, as was Copen-
hagen, which they pronounced Cor-
poraL Hans could hardly refrain
from giggling at the serious and en-
thusiastic way in which the farmer's
daughters displayed their ignorance.
Yet it was grand sport to sit there and
listen to their merry chatter, as the
diligence kept rolling on through the
thick darkness, over the lonely moun-

115

Hans Christian Andersen

tain roads. Little by little, Anderson
caught the spirit of their playfulness,
so that when they asked him if he
was young, and married, and how he
looked, he readily responded.

"Am I young? Yes. Married, alas,
no. As for my personal appearance,
young ladies, I am considered one of
the handsomest men Denmark ever
bred. I am tall, broad-shouldered,
strong and fearless. I have some re-
semblance to the vikings of old, only,
of course, I am more gentle. Once
seen, my countenance is never to be
forgotten. And now, pray give me a
description of your looks. You are
both beautiful, of course ?

"More than beautiful!" the gay
peasant girls cried, and when Hans
had heard their fanciful verbal sketch
of their charms he agreed that they

116

Through Foreign Lands

must, indeed, be the belles of the
environment.

"But here's our station. Won't
you please step out into the light, Mr.
Stranger, and let us have a look at
your face ? '^

'*I wish I could oblige you,'* An-
dersen stammered evasively, thinking
probably of his unhandsomely large
nose which helped to make the line
of his features so irregular, "but really
rd rather not. Please excuse me.'' ,

Standing in the door of the dili-
gence they covered their faces with
their handkerchiefs.

"Well, you shan't see ours then.
Good-bye, Mr. Unkown Man from
Corporal, bon voyage,''''

With a final merry laugh they van-
ished into the night and the traveller
was again alone in the vehicle.

117

Hans Christian Andersen

Andersen remained for some time
in various Swiss cities, principally in
Le Locle, the home of watch-makers,
situated thousands of feet above the
seas. Here he finished a new poetic
play, Agnete and the Merman, Sep-
tember the fourth. This work, how-
ever, only brought him disappoint-
ment and regret from Denmark,
instead of praise and admiration.

A few days later the traveller was
crossing the Simplon mountains and
moving toward Italy, the country of
his longing. The sight of the mag-
nificent scenery filled his heart with
rapture. He wrote in his diary.

"What grandeur of nature! Our
heavily laden coach with its team of
horses was like a fly on a giant block
of stone. We crept along the rocky
road which, at Napoleon's command,

118

Through Foreign Latids

had broken through this spine of the
earth. The glass-green glaciers glis-
tened above us; it grew colder and
colder. The shepherds were wrapped
in cowhides and the inns kept up
good fires in their stoves. Here it
was full winter, but in a few minutes
the coach was moving on beneath
chestnut trees, whose long green leaves
glittered in the warm sunshine. Lake
Maggiore loomed between the dark-
blue mountains; beautiful islets, like
bouquets, floated upon the water ; but
it was cloudy; the skies were grey, as
in Denmark. When evening came
all was again whiflFed away. The air
shone transparent and serene, and the
skies seemed to float thrice as high as
at home. The vines hung in long trails
along the road, as for a festival. Never
since have I seen Italy so beautiful."

119

Hans Christian Andersen

At Genoa, to which town Hans
hurried after having seen Milan with
its famous cathedral, he availed him-
self of an opportunity to visit the
Arsenal, where the galley-slaves, then
about six hundred in number, lived
and worked, and where all the horrors
of prison life v^^ere revealed to him.
He inspected the inner prisons, the
dormitories with large barrack beds
along the walls, furnished with heavy
iron chains to which the poor victims
were attached on retiring for the night.
Even in the sick-rooms, some of the
prisoners were in chains. Three pris-
oners in particular made a dreadful
impression on Andersen. They ob-
served his emotion, and one of them
looked at him threateningly as if to
say:

' ' I know that you are here merely

120

Through Foreign Lands

out of curiosity to see our misery. I
despise you and all such as you."

And he gave vent to coarse laughter,
half rising in the bed, and fixing his
eyes upon Andersen w^ith a diabolical
stare that chilled the Dane to the
marrow.

On October the eighteenth, at
noon, Hans entered Rome, the Eter-
nal City, where he "was soon to feel
as if he had been born there and was
in his own house.*"

Andersen lost no time in calling
upon certain illustrious fellow-coun-
trymen, who received him with
great kindness, and chaperoned him
through the town. He walked and
talked with his famous compatriot,
Bertel Thorwaldsen, the sculptor, a
statue of whom, by the way, may be
found in Central Park, New York.

121

Hans Christian Andersen

He spent many a pleasant and profit-
able hour in the company of Ludvig
Bodtcher, a celebrated Danish poet,
who had resided in Rome for ten
years, and who had practically be-
come an adopted son of Italy. Yet
another Danish companion from
whose friendship Hans derived much
benefit was one Albert Kilchler, then
a painter, but who, sometime after-
wards, gave up the pursuit of art to
become a mendicant friar, a Fran-
ciscan monk, assuming the name of
Pietro di Sante Pio. As such, he once
wandered barefooted hundreds of
miles through Germany to a poor
monastery.

At the end of his first month in
Rome, Hans reckoned that he had
visited one hundred churches, all of
which contained works of art. "But

122

Through Foreign Lands

there are several hundred more to be
seen," he writes to a friend in Den-
mark. He was very happy, and any-
thing but homesick. The sights he
saw charmed and thrilled him by
turns. He wandered for an hour
among the catacombs, his little lamp
throwing ghostly shadows on the
ground beneath which the bodies of
thirteen thousand saints are said to be
buried. "Another interesting but
terrible place I visited was the nether-
most cellar of a Capuchin monastery.
Here we pass through six chapels,
whose ceilings and walls are artificially
constructed out of the skulls of de-
ceased monks. The altars, even the
candle -sticks are fashioned out of
human bones. In the niches of skull
by skull, sit whole skeletons enveloped
in cowls and holding a book or a

123

Hans Christian Andersen

bouquet of flowers in the hand/'
The days passed swiftly, none of
them finding Hans either weary or
idle, but constantly bent on acquir-
ing new knowledge. Rome, he be-
lieved, could teach him more in two
months than Denmark in many
years. There was an immense edu-
cational value in the treasures of art,
to whose appeal he eagerly res-
ponded. Before such divine things
as the frescoes of Michaelangelo in
the Sistine Chapel, or Canova's sculp-
tures, or Raphael's paintings, he re-
cognized, with fervent humility, the
diminutive character of his own pow-
ers. This feeling almost drove him
to despair, almost crushed his cour-
age, and there were hours when he
was at the point of actually abandon-
ing his chosen vocation.

124

Through Foreign hands

Then one day, thus depressed in
spirit, he learned through a letter
from Chancellor Collin of the death
of his old mother, at distant Odense.
His first exclamation was:

"O God, I thank Thee! Now
her poverty is at an end, and I could
not relieve her from it ! ' '

Yet it was very hard for him to
grow familiar with the thought that
he now possessed not a single relation
in the world who would love him
because he was of the same kith and
kin. He wept bitterly, not only
with the sense of his loss, but also
with the deep regret that he had been
unable to make her last days bright
and free from sorrow. He wrote to
Chancellor Collin: ''She was weak
and helpless. You cannot know how
many tears her plight has made me

125

Hans Christian Andersen

weep, since I was utterly unable to
help her. She did not live to receive
my last letter from Rome, but I
know that she prayed for me at her
last hour and blessed me."

Anne Marie Andersen died in the
happy belief that her son had grown
famous.

From Rome, Hans journeyed to
Naples. The change of scene brought
on a healthful change of heart for the
traveller. He heard again the voice
of his ambition (and of his genius),
new literary plans began to take
shape in his head and his lingers
to itch for the touch of the pen. It
was about this time that he conceived
the idea of writing his long novel,
The Improvisatore, the first of his pro-
ductions to be translated into our
language. So high did young An-

126

Through Foreign Lands

dersen's spirits run, when he ascended
Mount Vesuvius, that — tramping
ankle-deep in ashes — he sang one
of his friend Weyse's tunes at the
top of his lungs and won the race
to the summit from all of his fellow-
excursionists. As he often said, his
pain was awful whenever he suffered,
but likewise his joy knew no bounds
whenever he was happy.

Spring came, and Andersen turned
his face northward and homeward.
Of course, it was his purse and not
his heart that determined this decis-
ion, for radiant Italy had now become
his second fatherland. Would he
ever be able to return to it? He
thought not ; he says that he was sure
he should never again see the beau-
tiful country he was about to depart
from. No wonder then, that his

127

Hans Christian Andersen

heart grew heavy at such a sorrowful
thought.

He reached the Austrian frontier,
where, according to the regulations
of those times, all travellers were com-
pelled to have their passports exam-
ined before they could proceed across
the boundary. Andersen's passport
was written in French. When the
frontier guard had looked at it, he en-
quired Hans' name.

"Hans Christian Andersen," the
author replied.

"That name is not in your pass-
port," retorted the guard, somewhat
gruffly. "So you travel under an
assumed name!"

The traveller attempted to explain,
but he was instantly informed that a
thorough examination of all his
eflFects, even to the clothing he wore,

128

Through Foreign Lands

would have to be made. Why ? Well,
Austria was on the look-out for sus-
picious persons, revolutionists, an-
archists, conspirators against the gov-
ernment, of whatever sort. The order
had come from Emperor • Franz
himself.

And now the inspector began to
rummage through Andersen's trunk,
hauling out and scrutinizing each
separate article. Concerning his nu-
merous keep-sakes, the author was
questioned at great length, and as to
his letters, the inspector made him de-
clare on oath that they contained
nothing of interest to anyone but
himself. Hans stood by, half-amused,
half-annoyed, but said not a word.
Would the ridiculous ordeal never
end.

"Where did this come from," the

129

Hans Christian Andersen

officer demanded, fishing out an ivy
wreath, which Andersen had kept
from a Christmas celebration in
Rome.

He told him.

" Have you been in Paris ? " asked
the officer for the fourth or fifth
time.

''I have.''

"Some dangerous revolutionists
come from Paris.

"That may be," the author now
spoke up,'' but let me tell you that
I'm not one of them. On the con-
trary I'm a true friend of law and
order, I hate insurrections and I have
only the highest esteem for your Em-
peror. In fact I'm a tiptop sort of a
subject, through and through."

This carried no weight whatever
with the inspector, who continued

130

Through Foreign Lands

his search through Andersen's effects,
till he had examined every particle of
them, and all because a stupid clerk
at Copenhagen had translated the
Danish name Hans Christian by the
French, Jean Chretien. Who ever
heard of a Jean Chretien Andersen?

On arriving home, in August,
1834, Hans hastened to accept an
invitation to visit an old friend, the
reverend Ingemann, at Soro, a beau-
tiful country place, near Slagelse.
Here, in a little attic chamber,
among fragrant lime-trees, he com-
pleted The Improvisatore. In the
dedication he wrote :

"To the Conference Councillor
Collin and his noble wife, in whom
I found parents — whose children
were brothers and sisters to me,'
whose house was my home — do I

131

Hans Chrtstia?i Andersen

hereby give the best of which I
am possessed."

The Improvisatore, whose hero, yln-
tonio^ is Andersen himself, was trans-
lated into Swedish, German, English,
Russian, Bohemian, French and
Dutch, a recognition that had been
accorded to no other Scandinavian
author before him and that few have
enjoyed since.

132

■

In the World of Children

A S a very young man Hans Chris-
tian Andersen does not seem
to have been very fond of children.
He felt ill at ease and shy in their
company, believing as he did that
they considered him a sort of crank,
stupidly ignorant of, and quite un-
able to appreciate, the sports and
pleasures of the golden age. For
this mistaken notion of his, we are
obliged to blame to a great extent
his personal appearance. Hans did
not look the least bit like the kind
of person for w^hom children are
prone to form an early attachment.
Extremely tall, w^ith drooping, nar-

135

Hans Christian Andersen

row shoulders, a long, lean, oldish
face, deep-set eyes, a very large
nose, and feet almost huge, — the
cobbler's son was anything but a
handsome youth. And he was him-
self well aware of the fact. Had not
his schoolmates at Odense and
Slagelse incessantly ridiculed his un-
gainly frame and homely features?
Had he not been bullied and hazed
for the same reason by his fellow
pupils of the chorus school?

However, as he approached man-
hood, the expression of his face
changed greatly. A kindly light
crept into his eyes — never to fail,
a playful smile harbored itself about
his mouth, his cheeks took on flesh,
his nose seemed to grow smaller,
and he shook off a good deal of his
stubborn awkwardness of manner.

136

- s

Si, S-

In the World of Children

In short, at thirty, when he wrote
and published his first collection
of fairy-tales, Hans Christian An-
dersen, smartly-dressed as he invar-
iably tried to be, was really a pretty
good looking fellow.

It was about this time that the
author met one of the most delight-
ful children in all his experience,
little Ida Thiele. She was the
daughter of Mr. J. M. Thiele, a sec-
retary of the Academy of Art.
Hans had known her father for ten
years; indeed Mr. Thiele was one
of those generous men who had sup-
plied him with money to keep him
in board and lodging, after his
memorable "success" at Prof.
Siboni's, of which event we have
heard.

During his student days Andersen

137

Ha?is Christian Andersen

was a frequent visitor at Mr.
Thiele's home and no member of
the household welcomed him more
heartily than did little Ida. She
would seize every opportunity to
get him away into some remote
corner where they could enter-
tain each other undisturbed. Al-
ways, she had some little matter to
confide to him, or some strange
question to ask. Hans would then
take the child upon his knee, and
looking into her bright, beautiful
face, feel unspeakably happy.

"My poor flowers are quite
dead," said little Ida one day.
"They were so pretty last night, and
now they are all faded. What
makes them do that? Look!"
and she showed her friend a whole
bouquet which was entirely withered.

138

In the World of Children

"I'll tell you what ails them,''
Hans replied, "you see, the flowers
attended a ball last night, which
kept them up till very late. That's
why they hang their heads so."

"But flowers can't dance," little
Ida exclaimed in surprise.

The student, not in the least
puzzled by the question, put his
long arm around the child and
leaned back in the sofa. Then,
little by little, step by step, he
began to explain the mystery, in
his own delightful way. Little Ida
(she was then only five years of
age) listened with rapt attention.
It was all so wonderful, and yet,
she thought, it must be true.

However, instead of retelling here
the story which Hans Christian
Andersen told his little friend, and

139

Hans Christian Andersen

which he "made up'* in answer to
her innocent queries, let me rather
ask you to read it as it stands to-
day, in his own words. It is the
fairy tale entitled, Little Idas
FlowerSy and now you know how it
came to be written.

Fifteen years afterwards, Ida
Thiele married one Alexander
Wilde, a commodore in the Danish
navy. She was fairly worshiped
by her friends and beloved of all
who knew her for her sweet nature
overflowing with human kindness.
Never did she speak a hard word
to any one; never did she do an
unkind thing. People wxre wont
to say that she was too good for
this world. In 1858, when Hans
stood at the topmost height of his
fame, the news reached him that

140

In the World of Children

"Little Ida" had passed away. On
her tombstone Commodore Wilde
caused the following words to be
inscribed:

<^Her life was like a wanderer's
steps upon new-fallen snow. They
leave foot-prints but no stains."

At the time of her death, Ida
Thiele was only thirty-three years
of age. We will remember her as
Hans' first friend among little
children and the one to whom he
told his first, original fairy tale.

Another child in whose company
the story-teller spent many delight-
ful hours, was Viggo Drewsen, the
five-year old son of Police Com-
missioner Drewsen. The Commis-
sioner had married a daughter of
Chancellor Collin. Viggo was
Andersen's ideal of a boy and he

141

Hans Christum Andersen

loved him with all the tenderness
of his very tender heart. When he
was seated with this little fellow on
his knee, kissing his rosy cheeks and
looking into his. deep brown eyes,
he felt like a child himself and for-
got all the discouragements that em-
bittered his early life. Perhaps you
should know that, though his fame
and income increased with each new
book he produced, Hans Christian
Andersen's position was not a very
enviable one. His enemies by far
outnumbered his friends. With
but two or three exceptions, all his
fellow craftsmen were jealous of his
success. They would snub him on
every occasion, calling him a con-
ceited fool, and circulate the mean-
est, untrue stories about him. This
is one of the reasons why the author

142

In the World of Children

SO often went abroad. For it was
in foreign lands that his lovable
qualities both as a man and a
writer were most appreciated.

But in the world of children
Hans had only admiring, grateful
friends, who proved their affec-
tion for their favorite story-.teller in
many delightful ways. For instance,
one morning the celebrated man
received a long letter from a young
student. With the letter was a faded,
dry, four-leaved clover. The young
student told the following story.
As a child he had once heard his
mother speak about Andersen's
early struggles — the hardships he
encountered, the disappointments
he met with, and even how on sev-
eral occasions he had been obliged
to spend a night on the benches of

143

Ha?is Christian Andet'se?i

the park, suffering for lack of food.
All this came as a great, painful sur-
prise to the little boy, who resolved
to do what he could at once to
help his unknown friend to succeed.
Straightway he went out into the
fields near his home, and searched
and searched for a four-leaved
clover. After a quest, lasting sev-
eral hours, he finally found the
coveted thing. So home he ran to
his mother:

^' Please send this four-leaved
clover to Hans Christian Andersen
right away," he said, *'it will bring
him good luck and happiness."

She promised, of course, and put
the clover leaf away in her psalm
book. A number of years passed;
the boy's mother died and in due
time he entered college. There

144

In the World of Children

one day, rummaging through a pile
of keepsakes, he opened the old
psalm book — and there was the for-
gotten four-leaved clover!

"I have just been reading your
new story, The Ice Maiden^^ the
young student concludes his letter,
"and read it with the same .pleasure
that your fairy-tales gave me in my
childhood. Fortune has favored
you, and you do not need the
^lucky' clover now, but I am send-
ing it nevertheless to tell you of
this little incident."

Quite a number of the one hun-
dred and fifty-six fairy tales Hans
composed in the course of over forty
years are based on some actual oc-
currence in the author's personal
experience.

In the story called The Old House

145

Hans Christian Andersen

Hans introduces us to an unselfish
little boy who gives away one of his
two tin soldiers to an old man living
quite alone in a dwelling across the
street. No visitor ever comes to
see this old man, and the child
has heard his parents remark that
though in comfortable circumstances
their unknown neighbor feels very
lonely. Hence the boy sacrifices
his favorite plaything in order that
the old man may have a steadfast
companion.

That part of the story has the fol-
lowing origin, which further illus-
trates the gratitude of certain young
folks toward Hans Christian An-
dersen.

While the author was visiting his
friend Julius Mosen, the German
poet, at the latter's home at Olden-

146

In the World of Children

burg, Germany, he read four or five
of his fairy tales to a group of chil-
dren, including Mr. Mosen's own
little boy who was especially de-
lighted. He could not help won-
dering, however, if Hans had little
boys and girls of his own in far-away
Denmark to whom to recite his stories.

"No," said Mr. Mosen, answering
the youngster's question, "Hans
Andersen is a bachelor, and he has
hardly any home at all."

"But isn't he very lonely, then,
papa?

"Yes, I think he is," the father
truthfully replied.

The next day, shortly before the
hour Hans had set for his departure,
the urchin went to his father and
handed him a tin soldier in Turkish
uniform. This he asked Mr. Mosen

147

Hans Christian Andersen

to deliver to their famous guest as a
token of his appreciation. The Ger-
man poet tried in vain to persuade the
boy that Hans would be even more
gratified to receive the gift from the
hands of its giver, but the child
pleaded bashfulness.

"Your little son has only two tin-
soldiers and I am to have one of
them!" Andersen exclaimed, deeply
moved on receiving the keepsake.
" Tell him that I thank him from
the bottom of my heart. I shall
preserve this present all my life, and
it will often cause me to remember
your little boy's affection."

And that the Danish author did.
In fact, for many years he carried
the man of metal on his person,
showing it to hundreds of people he
met on his journeys.

148

In the World of Children

The Old House contains another
incident that is entirely fact, namely
the paragraph in which is related the
story of a child, who as soon as she
hears music or singing, of whatever
sort, cannot keep her feet or body still,
but must get up and begin to dance.
The little girl with this queer habit
was Marie Hartmann, the daughter
of one of Denmark's greatest com-
posers. She was also among those
fortunate children who enjoyed the
rare privilege of hearing Hans read,
just before bed-time, from his most
charming wonder-stories.

Just before bed-time, that was the
hour when his little friends began to
look for the story-teller to appear in
their homes. And that was the time
of day he generally chose to entertain
them. Often he would come quite

149

Hans Christian yhuiersen

unannounced, mysteriously. The
lamp would be lit, the shades drawn,
supper over, and lo! the door would
open revealing the tall form
of Hans Andersen on the thresh-
old. When all were seated
and Hans had found a place that
suited him, and crossed his long legs,
he gave his audience a kind look,
raised the book or papers from which
he was to read, in his right hand,
and let the left one glide slowly up-
ward across his face for a moment,
seeming to gather strength, shad-
ing his eyes, and remaining motion-
less. And what a change had taken
place in the expression of his face
when he removed his hand! His
gaze was far-away; he seemed to be
unaware of the presence of anyone
in the room. No actor, no pro-

150

In the World of Children

fessional "elocutionist" could read .

The Little Match Girl, The Story of
a Mother^ or The Steadfast Tin soldier^
so wonderfully as their author him-
self. Though not fine in itself, Hans'
voice sounded like soft strains of
music when he read those wonder-
stories, and others. He riiade you
feel how he loved them, made you
see clearer than ever the beautiful
thoughts underneath the words.

While Andersen was always ready
to recite his fairy-tales in private
circles, he had a stubborn aversion
to appearing in public. He trem-
bled at the very idea of standing
upon a platform face to face with an
audience of strangers. On this ac-
count he reluctantly refused scores
of invitations to assist at various en-
tertainments arranged for charitable

151

Hans Christian A?idersen

purposes. Once, at Odense, where
he was visiting, one of his dearest
friends finally persuaded him to take
part in a concert, the net proceeds
of which were to go to a local
Asylum. On entering the crowded
hall, Hans grew feverishly nervous.
In his boyhood, he would have
thought nothing of marching upon
the stage, and giving the audience
present a display of his talent; but
now it was different. The perspira-
tion stood out on his brow, his
knees felt cold, and wobbled, and
for a moment, facing the applauding
public among whom were peasants
who had walked fifteen miles to
see him, it seemed that he would
collapse from stage fright. The only
thing that saved him, at this critical
juncture, was the presence of two

152

In the World of Children

little children he knew, who oc-
cupied seats in the front row. By
keeping his eyes fixed on their beam-
ing faces, Hans managed to imagine
that they were the only persons in
the hall. The result was most satis-
factory, though naturally Hans never
wanted to go through such an or-
deal again.

A curious incident happened late
one afternoon while the author was
reading The Storm Shakes the Sign-
board to a group of children and
their parents. This story, by the
way, is not a fairy-tale at all but
a true description of the havoc
wrought by a hurricane that swooped
down upon Odense in Hans' child-
hood days.

Andersen had barely uttered the
last word of the story when a flash

153

Hans Christian Andersen

of lightning zigzagged across the
darkened sky. The next instant
there was a terrific crash, the force
of which shook the whole house,
whose occupants, including the
author himself, rushed to the win-
dows. Now the deep, angry bass
voice of thunder resounded, and the
awful blasts of wind that accom-
panied it, seemed to raise the build-
ing from its foundations. Fiercer
and fiercer it grew in might, sweep-
ing the road clean in front of the
place, and whirling huge clouds of
reddish sand high into the air, dis-
coloring bushes and trees, many of
which it uprooted bodily.

'' My story is reponsible for all
this, I suppose," Hans jestingly
remarked.

After that, the story-teller never

154

In the World of Children

cared to read The Storm Shakes the
Signboard to anyone. The mere
mention of the title almost made
him hear roaring thunder, and beats
of tempestuous wind, and see blind-
ing flashes of lightning.

Though Andersen would have re-
sented being called superstitious, he
proudly considered himself a sort of
mascot. He never tired of talking
about his power of bringing good
luck to others, or of making some
wished-for thing come to pass. At
times it really did seem as though
he could turn black clouds into blue,
call forth King Frost to freeze the
ponds over, make snow tumble down
from the sky (for the children's
sake and at their request of course)
simply by snapping his fingers or
saying, "Presto! "

155

Hans Christian Andersen

One spring he received a long
letter from a friend in the country,
inviting him to come and spend
some time there.

<'My children do so long to see
you," the writer said. "They are
very unhappy these days. For weeks,
they have been watching anxiously
for the appearance of the stork. I
too watch, but no stork comes.
Now what can we do? Perhaps
you can help us."

"Indeed I can," Hans wrote
back, "I'll come, and please tell the
children that when I come, the stork
will come too. Just wait and see! "

This of course was a big promise,
yet it came true. A few hours after
the author's arrival, two fine-look-
ing, giant storks were seen flying
towards the house, on the roof of

156

In the World of Children

which they immediately began to
build their nest.

" Didn't I tell you ! " Hans cried,
delighted. "What a fine time we
are going to have watching those
great birds; and now let's go in and
I'll tell you my fairy-tale about
the storks."

By the time Fame had com-
pletely crowned him, there was
hardly a child in all Copenhagen
who failed to recognize Hans Chris-
tian Andersen whenever he walked
or drove by in the street. He was
as conspicuous a person as the King
himself. Queen Amalie often went
driving with him, and as their sepa-
rate carriages came up, crowds of
children would gather, shouting:

"Hurrah! There's the Queen!
Hurrah! There's Andersen! "

157

Hans Christian Andersen

Out for a walk one day, he
happened to pass a lady who was
holding her two little boys by the
hand. Upon seeing the author, one
of them, a light blue-eyed chap,
broke away and ran straight toward
the astonished story-teller.

"Hello, "he cried, grasping hold
of Andersen's hand.

The boy's mother instantly called
him back and began to scold him
for accosting a stranger in such a
brazen manner.

" He's no stranger, mother," said
the child. "That's Hans Andersen;
we boys all know him."

Then Hans, with a polite bow,
approached to explain that instead
of feeling offended, he considered
it an honor and a privilege (which
was true) to be so well known to

158

In the World of Children

the little children of Copenhagen.
It hardly seems necessary to re-
late other incidents in further proof
of the charming relation that ex-
isted between the story-teller and
the world of children. We have
already seen enough to be able to
laugh scornfully at the . absurd
statements certain men have given
out, to the effect that Hans Chris-
tian Andersen never cherished any
real love for little boys and girls.

159

In Great Britain

/^NE morning in the month of
^^ May, 1847, Hans stood on the
deck of an old Dutch steamboat
slowly plodding along up the
Thames toward London town. The
river was as usual alive with vessels —
crowded from bank to bank with
yachts and ships of every descrip-
tion and size. The traveler, to
whom such a scene of bustle on
the water was new, who had never
seen the like of it, tried for a while
to keep count of the craft as they
passed, a pastime of which, however,
he soon tired. At Gravesend, the
Thames was wrapped in a heavy

163

Hans Christia?i A?ide?'sen

cloud of smoke. "It appeared"
Andersen tells us, "as if we were
entering a smoking marsh on fire,
but it was only the smoke from
steamships and of chimneys that
lay before us."

Overhead hung a low sky, black
in places like soot, now and then
flashes of lightning played across
the heavens, and thunder shook the
air, with the noise of cannon.

"People know you are here,"
said a young Englishman to Hans
in jest, "and wish to bid you wel-
come. This tumult represents their
salute."

Not a single person did Hans
Christian Andersen know in Lon-
don and not a single letter of in-
troduction did he have to anyone.
A man of high station in Denmark,

164

hi Great Britain

who had valuable English con-
nections, had promised to commend
the author to the favor of certain
members of the British aristocracy,
but had failed to keep his word.
And there he was, feeling the
moment he stepped ashore like a
"stranger in a strange land."

Securing lodgings at the Hotel de
Sabboniere, then a very modest old-
fashioned place, in Leicester Square,
not far from Piccadilly, Andersen
quickly changed his dress and started
out to get a first look at London.
Incidentally, we suspect, he was eager
to learn to what extent his writings
had made him known in this, the
world's greatest city. Was he going
to have the pleasure of seeing any
of his books in the shop windows,
he wondered. Or his picture?

165

Ha?is Christian Andersen

He had not walked far before he
came up in front of a little book-
seller's, in whose show window there
was arrayed a row of photographs of
celebrated authors: Dickens, Bulwer-
Lytton, Grimm, Thackeray, and
others. Hans stopped and scanned
the portraits. Suddenly his heart
gave a leap of joy; his own likeness
was with those of the other famous
men. Straightway, he entered the
shop, and asked to be allowed to ex-
amine the picture of himself. As
upon several previous occasions of
a similar kind, the story-teller de-
cided not to reveal his identity, and
as he took the picture and looked
at it, he asked innocently:

"Well now, can you tell me, is
this a good likeness of Mr. Ander-
senr

166

In Great Britain

"Oh yes indeed, sir/' the shop-
woman declared, "a better one
never existed. If you should meet
him in the street, you would know
him at once by this photograph."

"It's very queer then, hang it,
that you don't recognize him, look-
ing him squarely in the face," were
the words upon the tip of Ander-
sen's tongue. He was tempted to
say who he was, but thought better
of it, purchased the article, and
somewhat disappointed at the stu-
pidity of the clerk, departed.

The next morning Hans called
upon Count Reventlow, the Danish
Ambassador, and in the course of
this conversation referred to his
want of letters of introduction.

"Oh," cried the clever Count,
"you will need none here. You are

167

Ha?is Christian Andersen

known and recommended in Eng-
land by your writings. Let me see,
this very evening Lord Palmerston
is giving a reception. I shall write
to Lady Palmerston that you are in
London, and I have no doubt she
will invite you to come."

A few hours later, Hans had the
pleasure of receiving a formal card of
invitation to the function, and in due
time Count Reventlow's carriage
came for him and the pair drove off
together to the fashionable residence
of the noted English statesman. We
may be sure that Andersen wore his
finest evening dress, and the decora-
tions that Christian VIII of Den-
mark and King William of Prussia
had lately presented to him as
marks of distinction.

How the diamonds sparkled in

168

In Great Britain

the grand hall where the nobility
of all England were gathered ! What
gowns of silk and lace the ladies
wore! And what a lavish display
of beautiful flowers!

Lord and Lady Palmerston both
received their Danish guest very
kindly, and he was soon made to feel
quite at home in this scene of "high
life."

"I know your story The Impro-
visatore^'' said the Duchess of Suffolk
to him. "It contains the best de-
scriptions of Italy Fve ever read."

" I know your fairy-tales, The Top
and the Ball and The Ugly Duck-
ling^' another lady of nobility would
exclaim. " They are charming,
sweet, delightful."

"Yes, and the story of the tin
soldier and that of Little Claus and

169

Hans Christian Andersen

Big Claus^^ 2l third society leader
would add, "how fine, how touch-
ing they are. How proud you must
be, Mr. Andersen, to have written
such unique little tales!"

At such compliments Hans Chris-
tian Andersen smiled graciously,
saying in his heart:

"Well I certainly must be a fam-
ous man to have reached this state
of recognition."

Many of the guests gave him their
cards with urgent requests to dine
at their homes, at an hour to be ap-
pointed by himself At length.
Count Reventlow who had watched
his countryman's social success with
keen gratification, drew him aside
to give him a bit of advice.

"You have to-night, my dear An-
dersen," said the diplomat, "made a

170

In Great Britain

leap into <high life/ which most
people would have required years to
attain. Don't be too modest now;
here one must advance boldly in
order to get on." Continuing in
Danish, which none of those present
could understand, he added, with a
twinkle in his eyes, "I noticed that
you received plenty of cards. To-
morrow we'll look over the pile and
choose the best ones. Now you've
talked quite enough with that last
gentleman. Over there is another
whose acquaintance will be of more
value to you. At his house you will
find a good table; and with that,
very select society. Go to him now
and acquit yourself well."

"At last," the story-teller con-
fesses, "I was so weary of moving
over the polished floor, of the men-

171

Haus Christian Andersen

tal exercise of clambering over
different tongues, that I didn't know
what I was about. The heat was
so exhausting that I was obliged
to break away and seek the corridor
to draw breath and get a moment's
rest, at least to lean up against the
balustrade.'* The following evening
Andersen attended another recep-
tion; the third night found him
again invited out, the fourth like-
wise, and the fifth, sixth, seventh, yes,
for twenty-one days uninterruptedly
he accepted invitations to dinners,
balls, and various social functions.
Engaged for a week ahead for din-
ner, he even sometimes went out to
breakfast. Everyone was eager
to meet him, and everyone had
something complimentary to say to
him. Of course, Hans enjoyed him-

172

In Great Britain

self, though finally, he all but col-
lapsed from the nervous strain oc-
casioned by that life of tense excite-
ment and late hours.

Shortly after his arrival at Lon-
don the Danish story-teller met
Charles Dickens, his favorite au-
thor and the man of all the
world whose friendship Hans Chris-
tian Andersen most earnestly de-
sired to gain. This first meeting
between the two celebrated writers
took place at the house of Lady
Blessington, also a well-known
writer. Hans had just inscribed his
name in a copy of The True Story
of My Life for his hostess, when
Dickens entered, "youthful and
handsome, with a wise and kind
expression." It was a moment of
rare happiness to the Dane and he

173

Hans Christiaji Andersen

couldn't keep back the tears that
dimmed his vision. They shook
hands, looked long into each other's
eyes, spoke and were friends from
then on.

Several wrecks later on his return
from Edinburgh, Hans received a
letter from Charles Dickens asking
him to come to Broadstairs where
the author of "Oliver Twist" was
living with his family. We had
rather let Andersen himself speak
of the visit:

<' Dickens occupied a whole house
to himself; it was narrow and con-
fined, but neat and comfortable.
He and his wife received me in a
very kind manner. It was so
pleasant within that a long time
passed before I perceived what a
beautiful view we had from the

174

In Great Britain

dining-room where we sat. The
windows faced the channel; the
open sea rolled its waves beneath
them. While we were dining, the
tide ebbed. The fall of the water
was very rapid; the great sands
where the bodies of so many ship-
wrecked sailors repose .rose up
mightily. The lantern in the light-
house was lighted.

" During dinner an Italian organ-
grinder happened to come and play
outside on the lawn. Dickens spoke
in Italian to the man, whose face be-
came radiant at hearing his mother
tongue. After dinner the children
were brought in. <We have plenty
of them,' said my host. There were
no less than five, the sixth being
away from home. All the children
kissed me, and the youngest kissed

175

Hans Christian Andersen

his hand and then threw me a kiss.

"We parted late in the evening,
and Dickens promised that he would
write to me in Denmark. But we
were to meet again before my de-
parture, for Dickens surprised me by
coming to Ramsgate the following
morning, and was on the quay when
I boarded my boat.

" < I wished to bid you farewell
once more,' said he and accom-
panied me on board, remaining by
me until the bell sounded for the
start. We shook hands, he looked
with his earnest eyes into mine, and
when the ship began to move away,
he placed himself at the very edge
of the pier, looking so sturdy, so
youthful, so handsome, and waved
his hat. Dickens was the last per-
son to give me a friend's farewell

176

In Great Britai?i

from the dear coast of old England."
In the next ten years, Dickens
and Andersen exchanged many let-
ters which served to strengthen the
bond of friendship between them.
At the end of the decade, the English
author persuaded his foreign col-
league to cross the channel again, this
time to spend many days in his
company at Gadshill. That this
latter visit was one of the brightest,
happiest of his whole career, is evi-
dent from the following letter:
"Dear Best of Friends:

"At last I can write, and the de-
lay has been long enough — too
long! But every day, almost every
hour you have been in my thoughts.
You and your home have become
a part of my soul's life, and how
could it be otherwise ? For years

177

Hans Christian Andersen

I loved and honoured you through
your writings, but now I know you
yourself. None of your other
friends could be more attached to
you than I am. The visit to Eng-
land, the stay at your house, is a
bright spot in my life; therefore did
I stay so long and find it so hard
to say farewell. Certainly, when
we drove together from Gadshill to
Maidstone I was so disconsolate it
was next to impossible for me to
talk; I was almost ready to cry. I
cannot express myself unless I write
in Danish, or I would say how
happy I was with you — how thank-
ful I am. I saw every minute that
you were my friend, and that you
were glad to have me with you.
You may believe that I value what
that signifies. Your wife, too, wel-

178

In Great Britain

corned me, a stranger, so cordially.
I can see that it could not have
been so pleasant for your whole
family to have about them for
wrecks one v^ho, like myself, spoke
English so poorly, one w^ho might
be thought to have fallen dow^n
from the sky. Yet how^ little I v^as
allow^ed to feel this. Give my
thanks to all.

"Baby said to me the first day I
came, ^I will put you out of the
window,' but afterwards he said that
he would <put me in of the win-
dow' and I count his last words as
those of the whole family.

"In the early morning, I am
writing this letter. It is just as if I
myself were carrying it to you. I
stand in your room at Gadshill; see
as I did the day I came, the green

179

Hans Christian Andersen

fields that stretch out to Rochester;
I smell the apple-like fragrance of
the wild rose hedges out in the
fields where the children played
cricket. How much will happen
before I again see it in reality, if
indeed I ever do. But whatever
time may disclose, my heart will
ever faithfully and gratefully thank
you, my great-hearted friend.
Faithfully yours,

Hans Christian Andersen."
But there is more to tell of our
hero's first stay in great Britain,
though we need not follow him
around all the corners he turned.
He saw <^high life," the splendours
of great wealth in London, it is true,
but he saw also the grim, sickening
sight of poverty. He could never
forget the pinched, pale faces of beg-

180

In Great Britain

gars he had met in the streets, men
and women carrying upon their
breast a pasteboard sign that read,
"I am starving! Mercy." He re-
membered for years a woman in rags
in whose arms lay a sick child, and
who as he passed her, pointed to a
sign of paper pinned to her waist
that stated, "I have not eaten these
two days.'* Whenever he could, he
gave alms to these miserable out-
casts.

One Baron Hambro, of whom
Andersen had seen a good deal
while in London, and greatly liked,
induced the story-teller to accom-
pany him to Edinburgh, in one of
whose suburbs his son was spending
the summer.

"My son has repeatedly urged me
in letters to urge you to pay him a

181

Ha?is Christian Andersen

visit," the old Baron had said. "As he
writes, you certainly have many
friends among the Scots, v^ho will be
very glad to shake your hand. Be-
sides the country of Burns and Wal-
ter Scott is well worth seeing for its
own sake."

At the country-house of young
Baron Hambro, at StirHng, Hans
was received like a member of the
family. He immediately grew fond
of the lively, lovable children in the
home, took part in their play and
did his best to make his English in-
telligible to them. Though used to
hotels, though a born traveller, he
had begun to long for the comforts,
the peace of home life, and here
was a beautiful home where he felt
as much at ease, as happy, as in that
of his paternal friend, Chancellor

182

;:&-

a
a

In Great Britain

Collin, at Copenhagen. The Ham-
bros were devout Christians. Every
evening they gathered v^ith their
servants to observe an ancient, re-
ligious custom. Hymns were sung,
a prayer was said, and then the head
of the house w^ould read a chapter
from the Bible. Phis act of.w^orship
made a good and beautiful impres-
sion upon the guest.

Accompanied by excellent guides,
Hans Christian Andersen omitted
seeing no interesting landmark in
and about Edinburgh. Though
almost painfully in need of bodily
rest, foot-sore, weary-limbed, he
pluckily followed his chaperones
from place to place, uncomplaining.
In London, incredible as it would
seem, he had found a spare moment
to write the fairy-tale entitled The

183

Ha?is Chfistian Andersen

Happy Family^ the only fairy-tale
he ever composed on English soil,
but in the chief Scottish city, he
hadn't even time to think of story-
writing.

I step aside once more to let
my world-famous fellow-country-
man relate a little incident;

"A large company of us visited
George Heriot's Hospital — a grand
building like a palace, whose foun-
der, the goldsmith, we all know
from Walter Scott's novel, "The
Fortunes of Nigel." The visitor
must bring a written permit and
write his name in the register at
the entrance. After we had all
done this, I noticed that the old
porter gazed steadily for several
moments at one of the names, and
thereupon turned to the elder

184

In Great Britain

Baron Hambro, who had a good
jovial face and silvery hair, and pro-
ceeded to show him every courtesy
on the journey through the build-
ing.

"^Begging your pardon, sir, but
are you not the Danish poet?' the
old porter at length inquired. 'I
have always fancied him as having
a gentle face and venerable hair
like yours.'

"<No,' the Baron replied, and,
pointing to me, ^over there is the
poet.'

"'So young!' exclaimed the old
man, < I have read him, as have the
boys too! It is remarkable to see
him such a young man, for they are
always so old, or else dead, when we
hear of them.'

"I heard of this and went over

,185

Hans Christian Afidersen

to the porter and pressed his hand.
He and the boys ('the little inmates
of the institution") knew The Ugly
Duckling and The Red Shoes very-
well.

<* It surprised and affected me to be
known here, to feel that I had
friends among these poor children
and those having charge of them.
I was obliged to step aside to hide
my tears. God knows the thoughts
of my heart."

Hans had been a week at
"Mount Trinity," the country home
of Baron Hambro, when he expressed
a desire to explore some parts of the
Highlands. As it happened, his host
had planned, just about this time,
to take his family to a certain sea-
side resort on the western coast of
Scotland.

186

In Great Britain

"So why not accompany us as
far as you can on the journey," he
proposed to Andersen. "We all
wish to have you with us, as our
guest, as long as circumstances will
allow. At any rate, we need not
part before we reach Dumbarton.*'

The story-teller gladly and grate-
fully accepted this further act of hos-
pitality on the part of Baron Ham-
bro, and soon the family — children
and all — were sailing across the Frith
of Forth to the little town of Kirk-
caldy. On the boat, a modern min-
strel in kilts sang old ballads to the
music of his violin, which, however
(Hans informs ws\ was sadly out
of tune.

In the various villages where the
travellers passed a night, Andersen
heard many anecdotes of Mary

187

Hans Christian Andersen

Stuart, Darnley, and the exploits of
the old Scotsmen, warriors to the
core. There was something roman-
tic and homelike about the very
country, which recalled Denmark.
Even the speech of the natives had
a familiar ring; words like bairn^
kirkj ken, being very like their
Danish equivalents: barn, kirke^
kjende^ meaning respectively, child,
church, and to know.

Far up among the mountains,
lakes and heaths of Northern Scot-
land, Hans was to have another ex-
perience in proof of his popularity.
A boat conveying a large company
of travellers had just landed at a lit-
tle place on Loch Lomond, in the
midst of the scenery of "Rob Roy.'*
Among the passengers was a young
ladv, who, the moment she caught

188

In Great Britain

sight of the Danish author, looked,
almost stared, at him. A minute
later her escort came up to explain
that the young lady thought she had
recognized Andersen from a por-
trait in her possession.

"And now she sends me to ascer-
tain if she was right or mistaken, and
in the latter case, to apologize. The
question is, are you, sir, the Danish
poet, Hans Christian Andersen?"

'^Hans Christian Andersen cer-
tainly is my name," the story-
teller replied.

At this, the young lady who had
stood a few yards away, ran up, in-
troduced herself, and began forth-
with to express, naturally and con-
fidentially, her happiness at seeing
the author whose books she prized
so highly. They chatted together

189

Hans Christian Andersen

for some time, the young lady doing
most of the talking, for as yet
Andersen's knowledge of English
was anything but perfect. Soon
the girl's family joined her, were
introduced and tried at once to
persuade the Danish traveller to
accompany them to their home and
be their guest indefinitely. But of
course Hans couldn't leave his
friends the Hambros, who, by the
way, were extremely pleased to
notice the respect that was shown
the story-teller. Before the young
lady and Andersen took leave of
each other, he asked her to give
him one of the numerous mountain
flowers she had plucked on Rob
Roy's Rock, and she selected for
him the most beautiful one of them
all. This he pinned to his coat

190

In Great Britain

and when it withered, he carefully
put it away among his dearest
keepsakes.

In Andersen's own account of
his rambles through the Highlands
we find the following paragraph:

"I must mention an incident in
itself quite insignificant, but to me
a new gleam of that fortunate star
which shines for me in little things
as well as great. During my last
visit to Naples I had bought a plain
walking-stick made of palm, which
I took along to England and Scot-
land. While I was driving with
the Hambros over the heath be-
tween Loch Katrine and Loch Lo-
mond, one of the boys took it to
play with, and when we came within
sight of the latter lake, he lifted it
up into the air, exclaiming! <Palm,

191

Hans Christian Andersen

do you see the highest Scotch
mountain? Palm, do you see, yon-
der, the wide sea?' and so forth.
The steamboat arrived sooner than
we had expected, and we were
obliged to leave the inn where we
had stopped for refreshments, in
scrambling haste. No sooner had
the boat left the landing than I
missed my cane. However, meet-
ing a fellow-countryman I knew,
who was to return by the next
boat, I asked him to take possession
of the cane and bring it to Den-
mark. The next morning I stood
upon the platform of the Edinburgh
railway station, ready to start for
London. A few minutes before
the hour of the departure of my
train, the express from the North
rolled in. The conductor alighted,

192

In Great Britain

came up to me, whom he seemed
to know, and handed me my cane,
while he smiUngly said; 'It has
travelled very well alone.' A little
tag was attached to it, with the in-
scription: The Danish Poet, Hans
Christian Andersen. The cane had
made a complicated journey and
passed through many hands. First
it had crossed Loch Lomond, then
taken an omnibus ride, after that
another sail, and last a trip by rail,
and thanks only to its little tag
reached me safely, just as the signal
sounded for my departure from
Edinburgh. I am still under an
obligation to tell the adventures of
the cane; I wish that sometime I
might do it as well as it made
its journey alone."

The first little book our story-

193

Hans Christian Andersen

teller wrote on his return to Den-
mark, a volume of wonder-tales
entitled A Christmas Greeting to my
English Friendsy he dedicated to
Charles Dickens. It contained
seven stories among which were
Good for Nothi?tgy Grief of Hearty
Under the Willow Tree, and // is
Very True. The book was pub-
lished a month before the holidays,
and entered many a home in Great
Britain before Christmas Eve.
Acknowledging the gift, Charles
Dickens wrote to his Danish friend
and admirer:

"A thousand thanks, my dear
Andersen, for your kind and very
valuable recollection of me in your
Christmas book. I am very fond of
it, and feel deeply honored by it; I
cannot tell you how much I value

194

In Great Britain

such a token of acknowledgment
from a man with the genius of which
you are possessed.

"Your book made my Christ-
mas hearth very happy. We are all
enchanted by it. . . . A few days
ago, I was at Edinburgh, where I saw
some of your friends, who talked
much about you. Come again to
England soon! But whatever you
do, do not stop writing, because we
cannot bear to lose a single one of
your thoughts. They are too true,
too simply beautiful to be kept safe
only in your own head. . . .

"My wife tells me I must give
you her kind greeting. Her sister
tells me the same. The same say
all my children. And as we all have
the same sentiments, I beg you to
receive the summary in an affection-

195

Hatis Christia?i Andersen

ate greeting from your sincere and
admiring friend,

Charles Dickens.
To Hans Christian Andersen.

196

The Friend of Monarchs

T ESS than a generation has flown
^^ since Hans Christian Andersen
quitted this life. It is therefore not
surprising to find among the living
more than a few men and women of
the very many who had the privilege
of hearing the story-teller himself
read his delightful fairy-tales. You
may be familiar with the names of
some of those who, forty years ago,
gathered around him to listen to The
Ugly Ducklings The Red Slippers^ and
other wonder-stories, for the list in-
cludes such royal personages as
Queen Alexandra of England, the
Dowager Empress of Russia, King

199

Ha?is Christian Afidcrsefi

Oscar of Sweden, Frederick VllI of
Denmark, and King George of
Greece.

Of the four Danish monarchs our
author lived to see and know, Chris-
tian VIII, who reigned from 1839
to 1848, was surely his favorite.
Between this ruler and his subject, a
most cordial relation existed. The
monarch took pride in the glorious
way in which Hans was representing
his country abroad. He understood
that whenever a German, a French-
man, Briton, or American, took up a
copy of one of the writer's books, the
reader would naturally remember
Andersen's nationality, and perhaps
feel tempted to exclaim:

"Well, Denmark must be a great
country to have produced so fine a
story-teller, a genius, as Hans Chris-

200

The Friend of Monarchs

tian Andersen," or words to that
effect. Besides, the King admired
the writings of his subject for their
own sake, and had the highest regard
for the character of the man whose
rise in the world was as extraordi-
nary as it was merited. About a
month before the author's departure
for England — in fact, on his forty-
second birthday — His Majesty wrote
in an album that Hans had received
from the Princess of Prussia, this
sentence:

"To have obtained an honorable
place by means of well applied talent
is better than favor and gift; — let
these lines recall to you your affec-
tionate

Christian Rex."

There were a number of Memo-
rial Days in his life which the story-

201

Hans Christian Andersen

teller invariably strove to observe
in fitting fashion. One of these
(perhaps the most significant) was
September the sixth, the date of
his first arrival at Copenhagen. He
never allowed an anniversary of
that unforgettable event to pass by
uncelebrated. Thus, in 1844, ^
quarter of a century having elapsed
since he left the post chaise at the
city's gate with his little bundle of
wearing apparel, what good fortune
could he have welcomed more
heartily than that of receiving an
invitation from the King and Qiieen
to celebrate the memorable day
with them?

While seated at the royal dinner-
table on the afternoon of Septem-
ber the sixth, he all but broke
down with emotion. As upon many

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The Friend of Monarchs

a previous occasion, his thoughts
sped back to childhood's places, to
Odense and his poor parents, to his
wretched home, to hours when a
piece of stale bread would have
been delicious food. And now, he
was the honored guest of Christian
VIII, ruler of all the Danes! How
like a fairy-tale it seemed!

The King congratulated him,
pressed his hand and wished him
happiness! Queen Caroline Amalie
did the same. And when the cloth
was removed, the monarch drew
Hans aside and asked him to speak
of his childhood and youth. Hans
recited the story of some of his
early struggles, which interested the
monarch deeply.

"But now," he said, in the course
of their talk, "you are out of the

203

Hans Christian Andersen

woods? You have a fair yearly in-
come, I trust? "

Andersen named the sum he
earned by his Hterary labors, and
the small annuity he received from
the Government.

"That doesn't amount to much,"
the King remarked.

"But I don't require very much,
Your Majesty," the story-teller mod-
estly responded. However, Chris-
tian VIII went on to question his
subject further on the state of his
circumstances and his plans for the
future, and finally said:

"If I can, in anyway whatever,
be of service to you, then come to
me.

Later in the evening. His Majesty
returned to the matter of the
author's practical affairs, and a

204

The Friend of Monarchs

gentleman who stood within hear-
ing reproached Andersen for not
having seized the opportunity to
have his annuity increased.

"The King," he declared, "put
the very words upon your tongue."

"But I could not, I would not have
done it," Hans Christian. Andersen
informs us. "'If the King,' I said,
'found that I required something
more, he would give it to me of his
own will.'

"And I was not mistaken. In
the following year. Christian VIII
increased my annuity, so that with
this money and what my writings
bring me, I am able to live decently
and free from care. My King did
this for me out of the pure good
will of his own heart."

On several evenings Hans read a

205

Hans Christia?! Andersen

number of his fairy-tales to the
royal couple. The Nightingale and
The Swineherd seemed to please the
King the most, — so much so, that
His Majesty wanted to hear them
two or three times.

At his parting audience with the
Queen, he received from her a very
valuable ring as a remembrance of
his most delightful stay at Fohr, the
little island in the North Sea, where
the King and Queen were then
summering.

Little more than three years after-
wards, the story-teller stood before
the Royal Palace at Copenhagen,
in the snow, looking anxiously up
at the windows of the King's bed-
chamber. Christian VIII was dying!
At a quarter past ten in the evening
of January 20th, 1848, he passed

206

The Friend of Monarchs

away. Andersen went home and
wept bitterly and tenderly for the
friend he loved unspeakably, whose
hand he was never to clasp again.
On seeing the remains of the mon-
arch lying in state, he became so
painfully touched that he was taken
ill and had to be carried, in a faint-
ing condition, into one of the adjoin-
ing rooms.

Frederick VII succeeded his
father, Christian VIII. The new
king was the most jovial, good na-
tured ruler that ever occupied a
Danish throne. He never consid-
ered it beneath his dignity to enter
a humble farmhouse and sit at the
very modest board of some peasant.
He moved about among his subjects
like an ordinary citizen, freely, with-
out swagger or the air of authority.

207

Hans Christian Andersen

Soon, therefore, he grew dear to the
hearts of the people, and the time
came when he almost replaced his
father in Andersen's affections.

Hans spent many an evening in
the King's company, sat at his table,
sailed the waters about the castle,
in the royal craft, and was always
treated with great kindness. Fred-
erick VII liked those fairy-tales the
best which were least sad and most
crowded with incident. He pre-
ferred a smile to a tear, a hearty
laugh to a sorrowful sigh. His fa-
vorites were such stories as The Jf^i?id
Tells the Story of Waldemar Daae
and His Daughters y Holger the Da?iey
and The Ice Maiden, In the latter
little tale he was especially inter-
ested because, as a Prince, he had
passed a good deal of time in Switz-

208

The Friend of Monarchs

erland. A few days after having
Hans read The Ice Maiden to him,
the King sent his subject a beauti-
ful gold casket, with His Majesty's
name engraved upon it. This letter
accompanied it.

"My good Andersen: — It is a
pleasure to me to send you my
thanks for the happiness you gave
me by reading your delightful
stories the other evening, and I can
but say, that I congratulate my
country and its King upon possess-
ing a poet such as you.

Your well wishing

Frederick Rex."

In 185 1 Hans Christian Ander-
sen made the acquaintance of King
Maximilian of Bavaria. This mon-
arch had long admired the writings
of the Danish author, and on the

209

Hans Christian Andersen

latter's arrival at Munich, immedi-
ately invited him to dinner at his
hunting-seat, Starnberg, where His
Majesty was sojourning. A leaf
from the story-teller's autobiogra-
phy describing this visit may be
inserted here.

"At the table, the King honored
me by drinking a toast to my muse,
and rising from table he invited me
on a sailing-trip. The weather
was dull but the clouds were scat-
tering. A large, covered boat lay
on the lake, neatly dressed rowers
appeared with their oars, and soon
we wxre gliding smoothly over the
water. Aboard the boat, I read
aloud the story of The Ugly Duck-
li?ig^ and amid lively talk about
poetry and nature, we reached an
island where the King was having a

210

The Friend of Monarchs

beautiful villa built for himself.
Near by, a big hill was dug into.
They thought it a barrow, like those
we have in the North. Here they
had found human bones and flint
knives. The King's escort kept
themselves at a distance. Maximil-
ian invited me to seat myself be-
side him on a bench near the lake.
He spoke of my writings and all
the gifts God had endowed me
with, spoke of the lot of man in
the world and of that strength we
have when we put our faith in the
Lord. Close to our place stood a
large blooming elder-tree, which
gave me occasion to mention the
Danish Dryad as that spirit is shown
in my story The Elder-Mother,
Passing by the tree I asked his per-
mission to pluck one of its flowers

211

Ha?is Christian Ajidersen

as a memento of these moments.
The King himself broke off one
and gave it to me. That flower I
still treasure, among pleasant sou-
venirs, and it tells me of the day
I passed at Stiirnberg.

<<<If only the sun would shine,'
said the King, <you would see how
beautiful our mountains would
look.'

"'I always have good luck!' I
exclaimed. 'I hope it will shine!'
and the very moment I uttered the
words, the sun really came out, and
the Alps shone in grand roseate
effulgence. On our way home
across the lake, I read The Story
of A Mother^ The Flax^ and The
Darning-Needle. It was a charm-
ing evening. The surface of the
water was quite calm, the moun-

212

The Friend of Monarchs

tains took on a deep blue, their
snowy summits gleaming, and the
whole was like a fairy-tale."

There was something so child-
like, so candid and withal so lov-
able in the story-teller's personality
that the hearts of all good, wise
men went out to him unreservedly.
"That man has an adorable face,"
said Carl Bloch, one of the greatest
of Danish artists, referring to Hans
Christian Andersen, and he thus
voiced the opinion of every one of
those Kings and Queens and mem-
bers of royalty in whose luxuriant
drawing-rooms the cobbler's son
was ever a welcome guest.

Unalterably dear to him was an
evening he spent at Dresden, at the
court of the King of Saxony. Here
too, he read wonder-stories, not

213

Hans Christian Andersen

only to grown-ups, but to a little
group of delighted princes and prin-
cesses, who treated him like a fond
uncle. The littlest of the princesses,
who knew that Hans was the
author of The Fir-Tree at once took
a liking to the foreigner.

"Last Christmas," she confided
to him, <' we, too, had a fir-tree,
and it stood right here in this room.
Next Christmas, we shall have
another."

When bed-time came, and the lit-
tle child was led away with the
others, she turned on the threshold,
nodding in a friendly and familiar
manner, and exclaimed:

"You, Mr. Andersen — you are
my Fairy-tale Prince!"

To Sweden belongs the distinc-
tion of being the first nation to

214

The Friend of Monaixhs

honor Hans Christian Andersen pub-
licly. As far back as 1839, when
our author was only thirty-four, the
students of the University town of
Lund serenaded him, held a banquet
and a parade in his honor, and
praised him in speeches galore. In
the course of his address, one of the
writer's admirers said:

"When your native land and the
nations of Europe offer you their
homage, may you never forget that
the first public honors were con-
ferred upon you by the students of
Lund."

Two Swedish kings in succession,
Oscar I, and Charles XV, opened
their palaces to him and otherwise
showed him every kindness. There
were tears in the eyes of the former
monarch and his queen, when Hans

215

Hafis Christian Andersen

read The Story of a Mother to them.

"How amiable they both were,
how simple and generous," Ander-
sen writes. "On my retiring, the
Qiieen held out her hand to me. I
pressed it to my lips. She, as well
as the King, honored me with a re-
newed invitation to come and read
to them.

"At my next visit to the palace, I
was summoned to the Queen's apart-
ment, for an hour before dinner.
The Princess Eugenie, the Crown
Prince, and the Princes Gustavus
and Augustus were there, and soon
the King joined us.

"' Poetry calls me from business,'
he said.

" I read The Fir- Tree, The Dar?t-
i?ig Needle, The Little Girl with the
Matches, and by special request, T/ie

216

The Friend of Monarchs

Flax, The King followed me with
great attention; he said that he had
read the stories on his recent journey
to Norway. Each of the three
Princes pressed my hand, and the
King invited me to come again on
his birthday, the fourth of July."

In 1846, King Friedrich Wil-
helm of Prussia, the first monarch
to decorate the story-teller, con-
ferred upon him the Order of the
Red Eagle, A short time after this,
Hans Christian Andersen became a
Knight of the Dannebrog^ thanks to
the appreciation of Christian VIII,
and soon afterward King Oscar I
of Sweden sent him the emblem of
the Order of the Red Star, From
Emperor Maximilian of Mexico, he
received, in 1866, The Order of
Notre Dame de Guadeloupe,

217

Hans Christian Andersen

It occasionally happened that
some royal admirer, deeply im-
pressed by the sentiment of Ander-
sen's finest wonder-stories, would
exclaim:

<' But where — where in the world
do you get all those beautiful
thoughts, my dear Mr. Andersen?
Whence do they come to you, and
how?'*

It is natural to surmise that
Hans Christian Andersen would
answer such questions in the words
of his reply to a young girl who,
two years before his death, put a
like query to him.

"Ah, my dear young lady," he
had said to her, <<if you should go
out some beautiful day and seat
yourself beneath a blooming haw-
thorn, the very same thoughts

218

The Friend of Monarchs

would visit you. The only differ-
ence is, you keep your thoughts to
yourself, I jot mine down on paper."

219

VII

The Greatest Event in His Life

VII

The Greatest Event in His Life

C\^ the evening of November
24th, 1867, Hans Christian
Andersen received a communi-
cation preparing him for v^hat was
to be the greatest festival of his life.
It was from the Common Council
of Odense, and ran:

<«We herewith have the honor to
announce to Your Excellency that
we have elected you an honorary
citizen of your native town. Per-
mit us to invite you to meet with
us here on Friday, December 6thj
as upon that day we desire to
deliver to you your certificate of
citizenship."

223

Ha?is Christian Andersen

The next morning Andersen
wrote the following reply :

"Last evening I received the
communication of the honorable
Common Council and hasten to
convey my deep-felt thanks. My
birthplace is granting me through
you, gentlemen, a recognition, an
honor, greater than any of which I
had ever dared to dream.

"Forty-eight years have passed
since I, a poor boy, departed from
my native town. Now, rich in happy
memories, I am received like a fond
child in its parental home. You will
understand my feelings. It is not
vanity that uplifts my heart, but
thankfulness to God for those heavy
hours of trial and those days of
blessed joy that were mine. Accept
the gratitude of my whole heart.

224

The Greatest Event in His Life

"I look forward with pleasure to
the appointed day, December 6th,
to join, God granting me health,
my noble friends in my beloved
native town.

Gratefully and respectfully yours,

H. C. Andersen,"
To the Common Council of Odense.

For five or six days preceding
the celebration, there was much ado
in Hans' birthplace. Old women
stopped each other in the street to
discuss the wonderfulness of it all.
Hans, the son of Marie Andersen,
who took in washing and whom
they could easily remember — Hans,
the one-time pupil of a school for
poor people's children — was about
to become an honorary citizen of
Odense, a distinction rarely con-

225

Hans Christiati A?idersen

ferred upon any one. The only
honorary citizen they had ever heard
of before was the royal prince
living in the old castle near the
railway station, and now a poor
shoemaker's son was to take rank
with him!

The arrangements for the cele-
bration were quite elaborate, and
the work of the various committees
appointed by Mayor Mourier went
on with admirable precision. All
Odense was determined to make
this the event of a lifetime — an
event of historical importance. If
Hans had hitherto failed to under-
stand that Odense was both proud
and grateful to him as the most
illustrious of her sons, he would un-
derstand it now.

At noon on December 4th, the

226

The Greatest Event in His Life

train conveying Hans Christian An-
dersen from Copenhagen rolled in.
Bishop Engelstoft, who was to be
host, stood on the platform to greet
him. Slowly, and wearily, as it
seemed, the famous story-teller
climbed out of the coupe. He
looked anything but happy; and
though his face lighted up at the
sight of his friend, it soon clouded
again. Thinking he was merely
out-of-sorts, the bishop tried to
cheer him by speaking of the sump-
tuous public display he was about
to behold. He talked about the
enthusiasm of the hundreds of chil-
dren who were to sing and dance
after the great banquet on Friday,
at the Court House Hall; explained
how the mechanics of the town had
planned to give one of the greatest

227

Hans Christian Andersen

torch-light processions that had ever
been seen in Odense.

"Everybody is talking of you,"
Bishop Engelstoft pursued, on the
journey to his episcopal mansion,
"Every available flag will be un-
furled in honor of you, day after to-
morrow. According to the old cus-
tom, the streets will be strewn with
green, bands will play, the populace
will shout, ^ Three cheers for An-
dersen, our native poet ! ' I could not
tell you how many poems, how many
musical compositions have been
written for the occasion, or how
many speeches have been prepared.
The schools will all be closed, in
order to give the children a perfect
holiday, and business will be prac-
tically at a standstill. But you seem
depressed. Come now, my dear

228

The Greatest Evefit in His Life

Andersen, what is it that troubles — "
Hans was struggling between
smiles and tears. He put his hand
to his cheek.

"It's a toothache, a terrible, in-
famous toothache. It started last
night, just as I was packing my lug-
gage. I haven't slept a wink. It
almost drives me mad; and besides,
my dear bishop, the thought of all
this honor simply overwhelms me.
Of course I am appreciative, but,
believe me, I feel so unworthy, so
undeserving of it all, that I have
hardly the courage to face it."

At the episcopal mansion every-
thing was in readiness for the ar-
rival of its distinguished guest.
There, he was no stranger but an
ever welcome, intimate friend of the
household. Two prettily furnished

229

Hatis Christian Andersen

rooms had been set aside for his use,
and the moment he entered the an-
cient, ivy-hung building he could
but feel a sense of security and peace.
The whole house seemed flooded with
the light of kindness. Every object
he touched or looked at seemed to
say, "Welcome! " Gentle hands sur-
rounded him with every comfort,
which loving words made doubly
sweet. It was December and win-
ter winds were blowing outside, but
within the walls of Bishop Engel-
stoft's home. Spring held full sway.
The unforgettable day dawned.
Hans rose early, opened his window
and glanced up and down the street.
Flags and bunting, decorating the
houses, swung daintily before a soft
breeze. It was as quiet as upon a
Sunday morning.

230

The Greatest Event in His Life

All night he had been unable to
sleep for the torture of toothache
and nervous excitement. The color
had fled from his face, and courage
from his heart. Only with dismay
could he now look forward to the
celebration. Again and again, he
summoned his strength and bravely
strove to keep "a stiff upper lip."
Yet, as he remarked to Bishop
Engelstoft's youngest daughter, he
felt like a man about to meet his
doom.

"Now I can understand," he
said, "the state of mind of a man
about to be beheaded, feeling the
way I do — I, for whom people
are doing only what is good."

At eleven o'clock came the
carriage containing the committee
appointed to escort Hans Christian

231

Hans Christian Andersen

Andersen to the Court House.
As in a dream the story-teller en-
tered the vehicle, which immedi-
ately drove off. Hans leaned back
in his seat, in a half-dazed con-
dition. But suddenly he awoke
with a start. Hundreds of little
children were following his carriage,
shouting hurrah! and waving flags.
He looked ahead; the big square
in front of the Court House was
crowded with people! And how
handsomely the buildings all around
were decorated! Now he realized
that the grandest day of his life had
begun. He grew somewhat calmer
and more self-reliant, varied emo-
tions playing in his heart. Over
there, to the right of him, in the
little lot by the Church of St.
Canute, lay the grave of his father,

"232

The Greatest Event in His Life

and a stone's-throw away was the
old home of his childhood.

The carriage drew up in front of
the Court House entrance.

" Hurrah for Hans Christian
Andersen ! " cried the people, press-
ing closer and closer to the vehicle.

The band struck up one of his
own songs, "In Denmark I am
born, there is my home." Pro-
foundly moved, but now completely
master of the situation, the "honor-
ary citizen" allowed himself to be
escorted up the stairs and into the
hall where Mayor Mourier stood
ready to open the official exercises
and present to Andersen his certifi-
cate of honorary citizenship. This
was a very attractive-looking docu-
ment bound in red velvet and richly
decorated with ornamental designs in

233

Hans Christian Atuierscn

gold. At the end of his presentation
speech, Mayor Mourier called upon
the audience (the large hall was filled
with prominent men and their fami-
lies) to give three cheers for Hans
Christian Andersen. Needless to say,
that was done with a will. There-
upon the story-teller took posses-
sion of the diploma. He turned,
facing the crowd, and tears came
into his eyes as he said:

" The great honor which my birth-
place is conferring upon me, over-
whelms and uplifts me. I can but
think of Aladdin, who, when he
had erected his magnificent castle
through the power of his wonderful
lamp, stepped to the window and
said: 'Down there I walked when
a poor boy.' It has pleased God to
grant me an intellectual lamp — the

234

The Greatest Event in His Life

literary gift — and when it shone
out afar, and when people in
foreign lands took delight in it, and
when they said, 'It shone from Den-
mark,' ah, then my heart beat joy-
ously. I knew that at home I had
sympathizing friends, and most cer-
tainly in that town where iny cradle
had stood. And this city gives me
to-day such glorious evidence of its
sympathy, confers upon me an honor
so overwhelmingly great, that, deeply
moved, I am only able to convey
to it my heart-felt gratitude."

This little speech was greeted
with hearty cheers, and then every-
one hurried forward to clasp his
hand. Hans tried his best to look
happy and to express, in word
and gesture, the deep appreciation
of his heart, but all the time he was

235

Hans Christian Andersen

suffering great pain from that miser-
able tooth!

Returning to the episcopal man-
sion, he hastened to join young Miss
Engelstoft in the sitting-room, in-
tending to give her an account of
the triumphant event. Of a sud-
den, as he was crossing the floor, a
shrill cry escaped his lips, he
brought his hands to his temples,
reeled and all but fell. In an un-
mindful moment, omitting to con-
sider his great length of body, he
had collided with the chandelier!
Instantly, he experienced an utter
change of mood. He saw an ill
omen in the accident, and, terrified,
began to bewail his misfortune.
However, bathing his forehead, and
comforting him, Miss Engelstoft
soon managed to revive his spirits.

236

The Greatest Event in His Life

There were speeches and songs
galore at the banquet in the eve-
ning. Representatives of all classes
had gathered to pay him homage
— clergymen, merchants, doctors,
lawyers, professors, even peasants.
Splendidly decorated, brilliant with
light, the big Court House hall
presented a most imposing scene.
From his place at the head of the
table, Hans could see a magnificent
portrait of himself mounted on a
pedestal, on the frame of which were
three medallions bearing these in-
scriptions: April 2nd, 1805 (his
birthday), September 4th, 18 19
(the day he left Odense for Copen-
hagen), and December 6th, 1867
(the day upon which he was made
honorary citizen of his native town).

Responding to the toast of a Mr.

237

Hans Christian Andersen

Petersen, a prominent merchant,
who briefly but eloquently told the
story of the author's wonderful
career, Andersen remarked that this
was his third visit to the Court
House hall. The first time there,
he saw an exhibition of wax-works;
the second, a kind old musician
had taken him along to watch a
celebration in honor of the King's
birthday; the third was the present
occasion. He said that it seemed
like a fairy-tale to him, too good,
almost, to be true.

"But life itself," he concluded,
"is, after all, the most beautiful
fairy-tale."

While the banquet was in prog-
ress, letters and telegrams of
congratulation kept pouring in.
One despatch came from the King

238

Hans Christian Andersen in later life

The Greatest Event in His Life

and Queen themselves, one from
the students of the University of
Copenhagen, one from the story-
teller's old schoolmaster of Slagelse,
and so on. As they were read by the
toast-master, the assemblage cheered
again and again.

At length, after Hans had made
a third speech, in v^hich he men-
tioned his gratitude to Chancellor
Collin, perhaps his greatest bene-
factor, the guests arose, the cloth
w^as removed and the hall cleared
for the appearance of a band of
children who were to bring their
greeting in songs and dances to their
favorite writer. An old-fashioned,
plush-covered armchair was brought
out; Hans sat down in it, but at
this moment, his tooth (which for
several hours had remained fairly

239

Hans Christian Andersen

quiet) began to ache atrociously.

In swarmed the children — in red
and white. They sang with sweet,
clear voices; they danced with
dainty, graceful motions. And their
faces expressed that innocent confi-
dence, that guileless charm which
has never had a better interpreter
than Hans Christian Andersen.

The author was deeply affected by
the spectacle; he ignored his tooth,
and throwing formality to the winds,
took one of the children on his
knee and began to tell fairy-tales
after his old inimitable manner,
to the unbounded o-ratification of
all the little ones.

Meanwhile the torch-light pro-
cession had been organized, and,
headed by a band of many pieces,
was marching up toward the Court

240

The Greatest Event in His Life

House Square. It was now quite
late, but all Odense was on its feet.
The main thoroughfare, through
which the parade moved, was liter-
ally packed with people, who pushed
onward like a slow surging stream,
under the red glare of the torches,
of which there were several hundred.

There was one old widow in the
multitude who, on seeing this mani-
festation, burst into tears. She had
known Hans' parents, and it seemed
sad that they should be denied
the satisfaction of beholding this
evidence of their only child's in-
comparable success.

The paraders drew up in front of
the Court House, and Hans Chris-
tian Andersen stepped over to an
open window and looked down at
the throng. This was the sign for

241

Hans Christian Andersen

the thousands to burst Into song, and
the band to play with greater enthu-
siasm than ever. The light of the
torches seemed to rise higher and
higher against the black December
sky; the vast chorus of voices seemed
to grow and grow in volume. Emo-
tion utterly overwhelmed the story-
teller. A vivid memory flashed
into his mind; the memory of an
occasion, forty-eight years ago, on
which his mother had taken him to
an old clairvoyant, whose pro-
phetic words had come true:

"He will be a famous man, and
one day Odense will be illuminated
in honor of him.'*

Andersen stayed in Odense until
the eleventh of December. He
visited the home of his childhood,
and lingered in the garden where,

242

The Greatest Event in His Life

as a little boy, he had dreamed so
much, so deep, beside the lone
gooseberry bush, and under the can-
opy of one of his mother's aprons.
He stood again at the brink of the
Odense yia and saw the very rocks
upon which his mother had stepped
when rinsing her linen in the flow-
ing stream. The ancient mill-wheel
was whipping up foam as of yore;
the bridge that led to the moor was
in its old place.

Though the formal festivities
were ended, the hospitable citizens
of Odense showed no desire to ring
down the curtain on the celebration.
During the remainder of his stay,
Andersen must have attended at
least ten different social functions,
the largest of which took place on
Sunday, at the episcopal mansion,

243

Hans Christian Andersen

at which one hundred and thirty
guests were present. It is not too
much to say that a thousand persons
called on the story-teller at Bishop
Engelstoft's home, in the course of
the seven days he resided there.
Toothache or no toothache, he
greeted them all with unvarying
pleasure and kindness. Among the
callers one morning was a poor fish-
erman, Gotfred Schenck, a school-
mate of Andersen.

"Well, Gotfred," said Hans, ex-
tending his hand, "you've whipped
me many a time, but it's kind of
you to come and see me."

And he slipped a gold coin into
the fisherman's callous palm.

Of course, the station platform
was crowded with people at the
hour of Andersen's departure for

244

The Greatest Event in His Life

home on December the eleventh,
and, of course, there was more
hurrahing, more shouts of " Long
live our poet!" Admiring friends
had fairly filled his coupb w^ith fra-
grant flowers.

<<Come again soon," the people
cried at the top of their voices,
"we can't see too much of you!
Remember Odense is your home
town! Three cheers for Hans
Christian Andersen!"

"Thank you! Thank you, one
and all ! " Hans kept saying, waving
his hand and nodding to the right
and left.

At length, the conductor blew
his whistle, the train began to
move, Hans leaned far out of the
coupe window to bid a last fare-
well, and say a last "Thank you," to

245

Hans Christian Andersen

the cheering crowd, and thus the
extraordinary holidays were brought
to a close.

But the memory of them lin-
gered undiminished in his heart
forever.

246

VIII

The Story-teller as He TFas

VIII

The Story-teller as He Was

T TP to the fifty-third year of his
^^ age, Hans Christian Andersen
never tried to obtain decent apart-
ments at Copenhagen. In 1858,
however, he took possession of fairly
spacious and comfortable quarters
in a house facing the King's New
Square and directly opposite to the
institution he loved — the Royal
Theatre.

The author frequently received
letters from American admirers
urging him to visit this country,
which, they promised, would give
him a reception unparalleled in all
his career. He never came, be-

249

Ha?is Christian Andersen

cause he was afraid to cross the
rough Atlantic.

"There is that endless ocean
between us,'* he once wrote to a
friend in the United States, <<that
fortnight ("it took the fastest steam-
ships of those days two weeks to
make the voyage from England to
New York") of raging sea; and I am
quite sure that for very many days
of that fortnight I should get noth-
ing but seasickness for my money.
The great ocean is a terror to me,
— and yet I love it so much, when
I am safe on dry land."

To be frank, it was not so much
the fear of seasickness that kept
him from starting the journey that
would have been the most magrnili-
cent excursion of his life — as the
greater fear of shipwreck or other

250

The Story-teller as He Was

form of disaster. He could never
forget the awful fate of Henriette
WulfF, a very dear friend of his and
who, in 1858, lost her life on the
Austria^ a transatlantic liner which
had burned at sea. The constant
thinking of that sad event so af-
fected him that one day, walking in
the street, the houses suddenly
appeared to him like so many mon-
strous waves dashing against one
another and threatening to make
him their victim. The terrifying
hallucination did not pass by until
Andersen had summoned all the
force of his will to shatter it.

In the face of imaginary personal
danger, Hans was anything but
brave. He had the presentiment,
for instance, that if an epidemic
were raging within one hundred

251

Ha?is Christiayi Andersen

miles of his whereabouts, it would
not fail to overtake him, no
matter how fast he might hurry
from its path. We arc told that if
a cat had scratched him or a dog
snapped at him at close range, he
would go about for days expecting
an attack of blood-poisoning or
hydrophobia to come on. If, as it
sometimes happened, he scraped his
knee upon some sharp surface, he
would be sure the injury, however
slight, would result in dropsy; and
if he discovered a pimple over his eye,
he gloomily took it for granted that
it would grow and grow and never
cease until it had made him utterly,
stark blind. More than once, when
troubled with a headache, he ran
off to some kind friend to tell him
that he knew his days were now

252

The Story-teller as He Was

numbered. Merely stubbing his toe
could inspire the horror that noth-
ing short of an amputation would
save his life. Almost to the last,
he was obsessed by the dread of pre-
mature burial.

Fortunately, Hans was able to
laugh as well as weep over those
little foibles, even if he could not get
rid of them. Nor did he try to con-
ceal them from the world. He kept
his life open to all — without a secret.
For it was ever his wish that his
fellows should know him in the
light of his faults no less than in that
of his virtues. As we have seen, any-
body— of whatever rank in society —
could have his confidence in the
early years of his life, and in this re-
spect he never changed. He judged
men mildly, and he prayed fervently

253

Hans Christian Andersen

that they in turn might so judge him.
To the last, Andersen cherished
an unfailing, enthusiastic love for
the theatre as a place of amusement
and instruction. It was his club,
his second home, and he felt bound
to it by almost human ties. During
the next to the last winter he saw,
1873-74, when too ill to be able
to leave his room for weeks at a
time, he missed no pleasure so much
as that of going to the playhouse.
There was scarcely a scene in any
of the best Danish dramas (or those
of other countries, for that matter^
with which he was not thoroughly
familiar. The walls of his apart-
ment were fairly littered with
playbills which the old story-teller
delighted in studying with the same
rapture as he had felt while pouring

2S4

The Story-teller as He Was

over the placards given to him by
Mr. Junker, the Odense bill-poster,
sixty years before.

We are informed that, at the
period just mentioned and on such
evenings as he v^as forced to spend
at home, he would seat himself,
promptly at seven o'clock, in his
cosiest chair, and imagine himself
a spectator at the Royal Theatre.
In fancy he would hear the over-
ture, see the audience pouring in,
see the lights go out and the cur-
tain glide up, and lo! the perform-
ance began ! To-night, as Hans
knows, they are playing Hamlet,
The invalid is holding the pro-
gramme in his hand; he knows the
tragedy so well, has seen it so often,
that he can follow in imagination
the actors' every movement with

255

Hans Christian Ajidersen

perfect ease. The minutes pass,
the stay-at-home sits there before
his fire, motionless yet excited. At
this instant, he finds by consulting
his watch, the ghost of Hamlet's
murdered father appears telling the
son the terrible secret of his
death . . . Now the Prince of Den-
?nark addresses Ophelia with mock-
ing words . . . Now the Flayers hold
the stage . . . Now ("the tragedy is
fast coming to a close) the ^^een
swallows the poisoned drink, and
thirty seconds afterward Hamlet
avenges the murder of his father by
stabbing the wretched king Clau-
dius to death. Another moment
and the melancholy Dane is no
more. He falls at the feet of his
loyal friend Horatio, They are
carrying away his lifeless body to

256

The Story-teller as He Was

sounds of funeral music . . . The
curtain slowly drops . . . The lights
are turned on . . . The audience rise.
Hans, too, gets up, folding his pro-
gramme. Now he may go to bed,
gratified, for he has been to the play!
Andersen's relation to his God
is a beautiful story in itself. His
belief in the efficacy of prayer was
implicit. To him, God did not
dwell only in realms beyond the
rim of vision; to him, God was no
mere mysterious far-off Spirit who
revealed Himself to mortal man
only on rare, rare occasions; but a
near Presence, a Being to commune
with every day, every hour. He
was beside, rather than above and
beyond you. You reached out
your hand and you felt Him take
it to guide you. You spoke and

257

Hans Christian Andersen

in your heart you heard His voice
answering. If you were discour-
aged and lonely, if the world
looked dark and cold, the smile
of God — yours for the faintest
sign — brought sunshine and warmth
and comfort. "Oh, if I could, I
would clasp God to my bosom, I
love Him so!" Hans used to
exclaim.

With the fervor of a little child,
he said his prayers every night. He
was infinitely grateful to his God, by
whose grace he had compassed such
great ends. When he looked back
across the ways of his life, how could
he but recognize the guidance, the
support of a loving Providence? It
was this feeling that often made him
say and write, "I am the child of
Fortune," and <' How beautiful is

258

The Story-teller as He Was

the world! How good are human
beings! That it is a pleasure to live
constantly becomes clearer to me."

The note of his wonderful success,
of his world-wide fame, never tainted
his heart with arrogance. In hours
when the praises and rewards of men
raised him to the glory of a king,
in hours of triumph, his inmost
thoughts were with his Creator, his
divine Protector. "If I have wrought
good, God's alone be the glory, and
may I never write down a single
word that I shall not be able to ac-
count for, to him."

Much — too much — has been
written, especially in Denmark, on
the subject of Andersen's vanity.
Even to-day many of the more or
less malicious anecdotes invented at
various periods during Andersen's

259

Ha7is Christian Andersen

lifetime, go the rounds and provoke
laughter. They deal with his sen-
sitiveness, his fastidiousness in the
matter of dress, his craving for praise,
his pride, etc.; in short they aim to
make him a very ridiculous figure,
a figure bearing but little, if any,
resemblance to the man as we have
learned to know him.

Hans Christian Andersen had
vanity, of course, and perhaps he
lacked to a perceptible degree the
quality of manliness. There was
nothing heroic, nothing awe-inspir-
ing, nothing formidable about him.
No forbidding frown played across
his face, no stalwart air lent firm-
ness to his carriage of body. Being
in his company did not move you
to exclaim, ^<What a dignified, what
an imposing man!"

260

The Story-teller as He Was

But if his vanity be considered his
greatest fault, how little and how
harmless a thing it is beside his sim-
plicity, his confidence in his fellow-
men, his love of Truth, of Beauty, of
Nature. He doted on elegance of
attire; he coveted and encouraged
admiration, was susceptible to flat-
tery; he permitted himself to voice
his own opinion of his writings.
There you have his four chief weak-
nesses, which were unpardonable sins
in the eyes of the people who had no
patience for him, who never under-
stood him and who, we may con-
jecture, could no more enjoy his
fairy-tales than they could fathom
the secret of his phenomenal fame.
I could mention some names and
facts, but this is hardly the place to
speak at length on this matter.

261

Hans Christian Andersen

The war between Germany and
Denmark in 1864, put the author
in an awkward position. Naturally,
he wanted to see his country win,
but on the other hand, he had al-
ways had a deep affection for Ger-
many, where his books were read
by thousands, and among whose
people were many of his dearest
friends, in whose homes he had en-
joyed lavish hospitality. So, while
his fellow-poets were writing war-
songs, inspiring the nation to take
up the sword and fight to the death
against the powerful enemy, Ander-
sen, anxious, distressed, grieved, was
mute. He could not write; he had
no heart for work. At times, a sud-
den desire to enlist in the army and
go to the front would arise within
him. But he could never yield to

262

The Story-teller as He Was

it, not only because he was now well
advanced in years, but he abhorred
the spectacle of war. It seemed to
him brutal, inhuman, unchristian.

For taking this view of the ques-
tion at this particular time, Ander-
sen had to suffer a great deal of
abuse.

"You are no patriot," people
said to him. "You are a man with-
out a country. Instead of shedding
tears and bemoaning the crisis that
is upon us, you should be up and
doing. Why don't you go out,
shoulder a gun, and do battle
against our foe. Don't you see that
thelifeof our land is threatened? Or
why don't you say words that will
bring new courage and hope to the
hearts of our brave sons? Fairy-
tales, for children, is that all you

263

Hajis Christian Andersen

can write? We need men now,
men of action, fighting men, pa-
triots, but you, you are like an old
woman!"

Hans bore such reproaches with
becoming good nature. He readily
forgave those who criticized, re-
buked, or even plainly wronged
him — indeed a kindlier spirit could
hardly be imagined. We recall
that a few years after leaving Meis-
ling's School he met the bilious
head-master one day in Copen-
hagen.

"Hello, Andersen," cried that
old tyrant, extending his hand. <<I
see you're getting on well, and I
wish to congratulate you. I treated
you unfairly in the old days. Sup-
pose we make up?"

" Fm quite ready to do that,"

264

The Story-teller as He Was

Hans responded, to the man whose
last words to his pupil were curses,
who, in taking leave of him at the
Latin school, had shouted that Hans'
books would grow mouldy on the
bookseller's shelves, and that the
author would end his days in a
madhouse. "I'm quite ready to do
that. By-gones are by-gones, and
I gladly overlook them. I have no
ill feeling toward you, Mr. Meis-
ling."

It would be a mistake, however,
to- assume that Hans Christian
Andersen was incapable of feeling
the passions of anger and resent-
ment. His blood could boil and
his eyes could flash. A story is told
of a dispute the author engaged in
one morning with a chambermaid.
Andersen on returning to his room

265

Ha?is Christian Andersen

at a certain hotel, after breakfast,
found the servant there tidying the
place. Hans didn't like the shift-
less, shabby manner in which she
did her work. A ^'confirmed"
bachelor, he knew more than a
little about domestic duties, having
often for instance made his own
bed, and put his apartment in
order. So he ventured to criticize
the maid's deficiencies. This she
vigorously resented, declaring that
she knew her duties to perfection,
and that no guest was at liberty to
interfere with her discharge of
them. If Hans had any complaint
to make, why didn't he take it to
the hotel manager, she wanted to
know.

Her tone of address, we can well
fancy, must have been anything but

266

The Story-teller as He Was

courteous, and naturally the story-
teller took exception to it. And
now began a battle of words.
Faster and faster, did the servant's
tongue wag. Louder and louder,
too, did the storm of talk roar.

It soon grew evident to the
guest that his opponent was rapidly
gaining ground in the quarrel, and
crowding him to the wall. She
could pour out a gush of words
that literally took away his breath.
He was outclassed; he realized that
it was utterly beyond his powers
to silence this strong-mouthed ad-
versary. But how to end the fight
and retire honorably?

Suddenly, he rushed over to the
bed and seized two pillows. Tak-
ing aim, he hurled these in rapid
succession at the irate menial, who

267

Hans Christian Andersen

was quick to strike back at him.
They fought at "close quarters,"
pummelHng each other unmerci-
fully, until every curl on the
author's head was no curl at all.

"Will you surrender? Will you
surrender?" cried Hans, delivering
well directed blows.

At length, quite fagged out,
flushed and perspiring from the
excitement of the fray, the combat-
ants agreed on hoisting the white
flag of truce. But shake hands
with him the servant would not,
before Andersen had given her a
good-sized tip. Then peaceful re-
lations were established between
them.

That Andersen was a man of
sentiment goes without saying. He
could never bear to destroy any-

268

The Story-teller as He Was

thing that had the appeal of a
keepsake. He hoarded up all sorts
of trifles, sea shells, toys, charms,
scraps of paper with a favorite
child's writing upon it. And the
letters he kept — they would fill a
small warehouse.

He has himself told us .of a little
experience of pure sentimental in-
terest, and yet which gives us
another key to the inner chambers
of the story-teller's heart.

One evening a few hours before
his departure from Maxen, a beauti-
ful country-place near Dresden, Ger-
many, Hans found a little larch —
so small that he could have stowed
it away in his pocket. It had been
thrown away by the roadside. He
stopped and picked it up, only to
discover that it had been broken.

269

Hans Christian Andersen

^'Poor tree," the author said
to his hostess, who accompanied
him, "it must not die."

Thereupon he began to look
about the stony ground for a fis-
sure containing a little earth in
which to plant the tree.

"They say I have a lucky hand,"
the author went on, "and perhaps
the tree will grow."

At the very edge of a rock he
found a crevice containing enough
soil to permit of his planting the
larch there. This done he went
away, and for a long time thought
no more of it.

"Your tree at Maxen is growing
admirably," said a friend to him,
two or three years later at Copen-
hagen. The next time Andersen
came to Maxen he heard it men-

270

The Story-teller as He Was

tioned as "The Danish Poet's Tree."
"The tree took root," Hans in-
forms us, "shot out its branches,
and grew tall, because it had been
cared for by my friend and hostess,
Mrs. von Serre, who had caused
earth to be laid about it; after which
she had had a piece of .the rock
blown away and the hole filled in
with rich soil. Lately, a path had
been laid out close by, and in front
of the tree stood a sign bearing the
inscription: <The Danish Poet's
Tree.' It had not been molested
during the war with Germany, ^But
now,' said the people, 'it is going
to die.' A mighty birch was grow-
ing alongside, its large branches
spreading over the larch tree, rob-
bing the smaller tree of sunshine
and air, and checking its growth.

271

Hans Christian Andersen

But one day, there was a violent
thunder storm. The Hghtning
split the birch, uprooting it bodily,
and <The Danish Poet's Tree'
stood free and untouched. I came
to Maxen and saw my young tree,
and nearby, the stump of the birch.
A new plate bore the inscription."

Not until two or three years be-
fore he died, did the famous man
begin to entertain the thought of
building a house for himself. The
burden of old age was then upon
him and he suffered more or less
from a complication of diseases.
He didn't like the Danish winters
any more; they made him feel rest-
less and homesick.

While confined to his rooms, he
sketched out all the plans for that
villa of his (\r\ his head of course).

272

The Story-teller as He Was

The house was to have a big room
with a glass roof, a sort of studio,
which was to contain busts of all
the leading Danish authors arranged
in a circle, in the center of which,
Hans was to have his writing-table.
Fine oriental rugs should add fur-
ther adornment to the chamber.
He made the boast to his friends
that his new home would be totally
different from all others.

With pride and gratification he
would count the money he had in
the bank, finding that he possessed
ample funds to build a splendid
villa. But the villa never became
a reality. It was one of the last
things Andersen spoke about.

As soon as the report of Ander-
sen's illness reached this country,
a rumor spread to the effect that

273

Hans Christian Andersen

the favorite author was in reduced
circumstances, in need of comfort
and human care, indeed, even in
want. The sadness of such news
touched thousands of responsive
hearts. A committee was quickly
appointed to determine upon a
course of action. They agreed to
collect a sum of money by popular
subscription, to give to Andersen
on his seventieth birthday. Mean-
while, however, a letter of inquiry
had reached the old story-teller.
To this he rephed that he enjoyed
all the good things that mortal man
could ask.

"My sympathetic friends must
not think," he wrote to the
American committee, "that I am
a poor, neglected, old author,
anxious about his daily bread and

274

The Story-teller as He Was

unable to take care of his sick
body. God has been very good to
me, and loving friends surround
me — and I cannot accept any gift
from individuals."

Hans Christian Andersen lived
and died unmarried. This fact
covers a secret concerning w^hich
the author was generally and con-
sistently reticent. In his Autobiog-
raphy he makes but the merest
allusion to it. Let us hear the sad
little love-story — the only love-
story of his life!

In August, 1830, or when he was
twenty-five, we find Hans visiting
at the house of his friend and class-
mate at college. Christian Voigt,
whose parents, wealthy and promi-
nent, lived in Faaborg which is not
so very far from the town of Odense.

275

Hans Christiayi Andersen

The moment he entered that
house, a pair of brown eyes met his,
a woman's white hand reached out
to him, and — he fell in love with
his friend's sister, with Riborg Voigt.
It was love at first sight, as we may
say, but, on his part at least, it
was pure and enduring. Did the
young lady respond to his affection,
did she return his love? In a way,
yes — to a certain extent. But
(and there was an insurmountable
biit\ she had recently become affi-
anced to another! So great, so over-
whelming was Andersen's feeling
for her, that he expressed his will-
ingness to make any sacrifice. He
would give up authorship with its
uncertain results. He would learn
a trade, or study for the ministry.
He would do anything in order to

276

3lonumetit in Odense

The Story-teller as He Was

secure a steady income — if — if she
would but marry him. For three
days — for three days only, he re-
mained at Mr. Voigt's home. Then,
seeing the hopelessness of his case, he
hurried away heart-broken, utterly
miserable.

Some months later they met and
saw a good deal of each other for a
space of three weeks, at Copen-
hagen. What did they say to each
other? How did they finally part?
We do not know. Only of this are
we aware. Riborg Voigt did not
break her engagement for Ander-
sen's sake, but married her fiance
and lived happily with him. But
Hans remained true to his first love
forever, and his finest poems were
addressed to her. When he was
dead, August fourth, 1875, those

277

Hans Christian Andersen

who unclothed his body found a
little pouch upon his breast, over
his heart. In it was a letter from
Riborg Voigt, which the author had
worn for forty-five years without ever
mentioning the matter, not even to
his dearest friends. With the letter
was the command that her words to
him, her last, no doubt, be burned
unread. This was immediately done.

He looked peaceful and happy in
death, the gentle old story-teller.
Even after the spirit had departed, it
was as if his voice kept murmuring,
as it had done up to almost the very
last second of breath:

^< How happy I am; how beauti-
ful the world is. Life is so
beautiful. It is just as if I were
sailing into a land far, far off,
where there is no pain, no sorrow."

mmm

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